The Winding Line


Deja vu, a pound in the head, the high ringing, then a silent silent world inside – these signals pass me through the gate to a frontier, making me a free roaming agent who is not an agent. Silent, snow-covered world. It hits sick to my stomach, like a trapdoor has let loose, then I feel deeply glad.

As I go to sleep, there is a blank page, white and far. A winding deep brown line begins its path, and I am hypnotized by it, like a butterfly flying close. It relentlessly draws angles, flowers, leaves, and ferns- ugly, I cringe. 

I know it is the living wallpaper of a tour I have taken before. I’m not keen on taking it again. But maybe I am, maybe I am, because it will suffer me, and if I can be cool, real cool, the suffering will explode, and there will be a light. 

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