A faint wind, whispering more than rolling; I am privy to its ministrations if I don"t move a muscle.
My appendages are carefully removed, piled in a neat heap on the floor alongside the cot - well, as neat as a heap of appendages resulting from dismemberment can be.
The excessive occupation of my mind seems to have abated. Or should I say, the visitations have ceased. As silence builds through me, the last of the visitors seem to ooze away, as if they were jelly dripping from a sloppy jar. And sloppy jar I have been - but no more. The stakes are too high: my existence depends upon it.
Not that I am one to place value upon my existence, per se, or an existence in the abstract, one as microcosm for the all... No , this is far simpler. Custodian of my fate, whether errand-boy or master, it is unseemly to say the least to abandon one's charge, however compromised, however pain-saturated. Gosh, unseemly is a ridiculous descriptor - it is downright wrong to do so.
Dear Reader, you have suffered along with me to some extent - perhaps cursory, perhaps deeply - so I owe the debt of honesty to you in the sweet recompense that is voluntary commerce, Simply: I no longer had the option to, so to speak, dick around with my existence; when the fates brought their ticket in, it was time to put up or shut up. And, I am sure it will not come as a surprise to you - I was a few quarts shy of a full tank. Insufficient fuel for the trip. Dead in the water, if one took the even-slightly-more-long-than-the-short view. And embarrassed, forgetful, ashamed, unrepentant, and disoriented all at the one.
And so across the Great Water we go. Into the voidal quietude. A silence as vast as - well, as vast as is. A flicker: presence. The mind, astonished: not numbed, but - not inverted, but freed. No objects. No size. Time is a vacuum, into which abhorrence disappears. Incapacity. Subluxation. Ready the cartoon music, which plays silently.