. elsewhere . . letters from the inaccessible .


4 February 2001


The vinyl protested slightly as I stood to cross the kitchen. The fluorescent above assaulted me on two fronts; the green ring with the hot orange core emitted a 60-hertz insult, a steel I-beam creaking in plastic deformation; its hot core crackled fitfully the lights of neurons misfiring in seizure. At the sink, my mug turned on its side vomited a brown streak of coffee and grounds over the porcelain, adding its quiet fraction to the stains.

I couldn't bear to look into her eyes across the room. I was frightened, and worn down, barely running on the machine that ran me, and I knew what she was going to ask me. My project, my obligation, my God, what have I gotten myself into?

Each hour I was subjected to her presence was another dose of mercury salts, and I knew my behaviors were becoming increasingly maladroit, sclerotic, panicked. I knew I was going to make the mistake that ruined her, my project, my obligation, my need to change who I am, to become more rather than less. She insisted upon it.

She fed me stardust by the spoonful. She drew me into a crisis which was not of my making, but what I must merely accept. I had to purchase my escape with a pound of flesh, a gallon of reputation, a glass of tap water. Into the clear fluid, I mixed granules of faith, stirring slowly until it occluded completely. I slipped, overturned the glass, spilling faith and stardust across the floor. That time, I thought, it was too much. It would actually be the end.

why I can't tell you

I'm concerned that you're not sympathetic... to why I'm afraid for me, for all of us.

musings of señor prod.

No rest for the weary at The Revolution. What price glory?


©2001 Timothy A. Clark -|-