Gardenhead
and the first one tore a picture
Tap, tap, tap.
Three taps, you say, like the faucet earlier. Three taps then it faded away and that was because pale hands and ginger hair silenced it, all habit and worry. A mild care for a dead planet enforced by neuron connection after neuron connection. You're mild, too, a little dream. A small memory of a homosapien who sometimes left the tap on because 'What's the point? We're all dead anyway.'
You're too scared to die so you'll cause a drought and hope by some miracle that'll kill you before old age. Or a car. Or a knife. Or a million and one other circumstances you've sat and thought about it. Acid burns, fire smoke, ice blues, knife twist. Your stomach cringes away from your brain, from the thoughts that poison the controller of the transport that is so. But you don't register that, trapped now by some mundane movements of a functioning human being with friends and work and you didn't sign up for this.
You really didn't.
He's all very precise, putting cups away and placing feet where there's floor and not wall, you wonder how that came to be and you wonder if you really spent years trapped between such horrors of the modern day. You stop wondering when you stop breathing, and when he starts to hum you throw a glass at the floor you can't perceive and you follow the trail your spectacular organ has remembered for you.
Your room is empty and cold and not human at all.
Three taps, you say, like the faucet earlier. Three taps then it faded away and that was because pale hands and ginger hair silenced it, all habit and worry. A mild care for a dead planet enforced by neuron connection after neuron connection. You're mild, too, a little dream. A small memory of a homosapien who sometimes left the tap on because 'What's the point? We're all dead anyway.'
You're too scared to die so you'll cause a drought and hope by some miracle that'll kill you before old age. Or a car. Or a knife. Or a million and one other circumstances you've sat and thought about it. Acid burns, fire smoke, ice blues, knife twist. Your stomach cringes away from your brain, from the thoughts that poison the controller of the transport that is so. But you don't register that, trapped now by some mundane movements of a functioning human being with friends and work and you didn't sign up for this.
You really didn't.
He's all very precise, putting cups away and placing feet where there's floor and not wall, you wonder how that came to be and you wonder if you really spent years trapped between such horrors of the modern day. You stop wondering when you stop breathing, and when he starts to hum you throw a glass at the floor you can't perceive and you follow the trail your spectacular organ has remembered for you.
Your room is empty and cold and not human at all.