Thursday, August 25, 2005
Rising Dread in a 767
It's like getting a pen knife driven into the small of your back. Like having a gnome in your chest cavity, grinding your guts to dust. A piece of elastic around your head, slowly contracting, inching and crawling its way upward, infinitely, never snapping.
It means never again focusing your eyes tightly.
Never thinking rightly.
Never touching the moment of completion.
What's wrong with death in small doses? One might build up an immunity. Death is an event one should practice. It is epochal. One must prepare for it.
I can only hope the minute death of the cigarette drag is representative of the real thing.