He felt them inside his hands and legs, inside his chest, even inside his face. He saw them too, sometimes. Nobody else did. Only him. The miniscule worm-like parasites which had taken his body as their new home. He would never have noticed them had it not been for the unbearable itching. They slipped out of his skin to peak into the atmosphere, he felt them crawling on his skin. It would start itching. Nobody would believe him, even when he grabbed one of them and pulled it out (and caused a wound which had still not healed). Every test he underwent, told him he was normal, with nothing wrong with him. It would still itch.17 July 2018
It was almost summer and it was lighter for longer these days. The dying heat of the day wafted off the asphalt, bringing the evening down to a temperature where one could comfortably go without shoes. Nicholas didn’t have the luxury of a balcony, so instead he sat on his windowsill with his suit pants loosely rolled above his hairy ankles, dangling his sockless feet over the last of the evening traffic below.17 July 2018
A whisper of a life on a different sea.
Sunken are the relics of who I’m supposed to be.
Displaced wounds and fragmented scrawl.
I grew up too fast and not at all.
On my scribbled to-do list is the task: “reacquaint myself with magic.” Then an arrow coils past “catch up on W9 lecture” and “finish Part C stats” and connects to “in the world, myself, etc.”17 July 2018
Taking his place,
I sat the first time, eager, in pain,
numerous nurses cautioning me against
curiosity, but all I saw out the window
was a block of red bricks, a wall.
The hand behind is slightly cocked, palm face up, the fingers outstretched, the entire arm straight down, the profile of the body thereby having a more dramatic lilt, as six eyes regard him as he passes through the lobby. Viewed from the side, he looks unnatural—viewed from behind, he is the scenery. The hand in front holds another—a second. He walks forward slightly slower than what is realistic. He does not squeeze the second hand, as he is led, through the lobby, past the lobby, down a corridor lined with windows on either side.17 July 2018
i wrote my name in the shores of your palms, over and over
each time the ocean washed it out, a message
she would soon turn into a lesson.
Bright yellow in the sky as frail, trembling rays of light filtered down to where it met the ocean. The churning waves crashed against each other in sloppy undulations. An eternity of movement swirling on the surface of a calm ocean. Thick and cold, the depths seemed still, motionless in comparison to the surge of movement on the surface.17 July 2018