Prose 3

Slow horns blast in an uncoordinated effort to ruin my psyche. Craving something normal, I’m salivating at the idea of classical music.

I can almost see it. It’s blurry, a green swamp with the grey black sky of a sun that’s just set and the pine trees are clawing at the last gasps of sunlight like a hand claws at your gasping throat. The orchestra is playing slow on the shoreline of a too green swamp. I’m calf deep in black wet death, marching towards the cello.

All the strings suddenly snap and I’m nerve singed hot cold with the stillness of nothing. Coffins aren’t this quiet.


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