to pull soon...

He could not have predicted that he had stepped onto a patch of incredibly fine sand. What looked glittery and pure at first became an ever deeper growing well, filled with fine dust in constant, random motion, swarming particles embracing his heels, then ankles, then further, up his legs, immobilizing, him fur,the,r a,nd f,ur,t,h,e;r,. At first his illusion was that of the returning to a comfortable and warm space. A light seemed to shine on him, he felt as if there were a center to this spectacle and that it resided somewhere within his chest. The universe never stopped to expand, of course. The objects around him moved farther and farther away from him with every minute, hour, day... the past was rushing away into a milky distance, and so was the future, on the opposite side of him. An ever louder murmur of voices became the distractor of of his present. His verbal thinking was preoccupied with the decoding of the voices. His visual thinking became distracted by the ever present motion of his surroundings. Noise, motion, the deeper and deeper sinking of his weaker and weaker body... This is when he began to pull on his own hair, the remains of it, stronger and stronger, the short hair, pulled, the good pain, the pain with a purpose. Soon.

About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Witold published on February 4, 2005 8:34 PM.

flowers, rice and the faint memories of a sick night. was the previous entry in this blog.

About an old voice recorder and how it made me resize the world when I was a little boy. is the next entry in this blog.

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