I have long been comforted by my fears. Something has always been coming at me, so I never approach the front door when anyone is about. Usually when I have left in the company of a human it has been to be dragged to prison, thrown into the streets or the madhouse. I no longer participate. There is no place left to drop out to, so I’m running out of places to stop and catch my breath.

Lately I have managed to be gone in time. I’ve fallen into a habit of leaning on knives when they are held to my back. Not everybody welcomes that. The threats are meant to control. It’s a bit disconcerting when the target opts for the punishment.

I pass days in a numb, obsessive reverie. I pass through the streets on errands I as often as not forget, and rarely care to complete when I do. Faces are never recognizable, but I can see recognition in a face in the street when a look of revulsion contorts their habitual blandness, their mask of belonging. The scent of decomposition lingers just beyond my sense of smell.

Fear warns of danger, hunger raises anger, but apathy immobilizes. The endless flow of words between people would dwindle to a trickle if we could no longer deliver our respective tales of agony. There is a certain thrill I get from recognizing my nightmares in real events, or meeting a person for the first time a day after dreaming of them. Fear time. Sometimes there is a link between a dream and an event that is not immediately apparent.

I’m awaiting certain death in an abandoned building. Poised in the middle of the room, I have the sense I’m standing at the edge of a cliff that is dropping far into the blackness below. A warm rush of air startles me. The room is sealed off. An abyss yawns before me, not visible, but palpable. I am aware that others are outside the room, silent in anticipation for what I’m about to do. None of them were real. As usual the promised spectacle failed to entrance. To be seen and heard by other unreal spectres confirmed their reality. A wave engulfed a small nation. They had been brought into existence by human thought and feeling, but had also pre-dated them.

I hear a distant cry of surprise and warning. I smile, recognizing the moment. Punishment, recognizable after a smirk, days and not for refuse edge is in appearance and warm reverie. I’m the cry recognizing blandness in the ways knives flow across moving soft tissue. Before I approach the outside air I’ve anticipation of something far more disconcerting. I wonder what anticipation could there be in death that can match grey consensus.

I see you hawk the sacrament in a reverie of acquiescence, melt away, and demur. Every one was dead by the end, though they had never lived. The light was going out of both worlds, fading into entropic languor. Elements of character meet your gaze at the corridor, insurgent, red disdain in corrupt augmentations. Talking was a way to ignore the death that was theirs. The stillness, preoccupied, drawn in to that nowhere, has become aware of an odd, embryonic authority. A war dragged on in an arid and hot part of the globe. Elements cry running remnants visible only to me.

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