fevered .. musings? .. in a ceiling fan
i wish we had been more in love, but now i'm dead
is what i thought i said to him, but he didn't react. he continued to type on his laptop as if i hadn't said anything at all. as if i wasn't there even. i want to tell him about the ceiling fan, but he's not listening. my eyes start to burn as hot, greasy tears fill the corners.
it has the presence of some mechanical extruder, each of the four blades twisting inward from horizontal to vertical, giving the impression that they are wrapping the central button light with infinite layers of white laminate, but that button light does not grow.
instead, the air thickens, displaced. it doesn't make sense that i would need to sneeze if i were dead, but apparently this ceiling propeller can push air across necromantic boundaries.
maybe i brought this ceiling fan over with me as i passed away? is it.. also dead?
i prop myself up on my elbow to peer out the window.
three dark gray birds alight, in perfect unison, on the power lines outside the window. in perfect unison, the tilt their tiny heads to face me. i believe it's a trick of perspective, but they have landed in an orientation, on separate power lines, that makes it look like they are in a perfect triangle.
they are three perfect heathers, a holy trinity, come to collect their dues. in perfect unison, they flinch from a loud sound, but in perfect unison, they refocus their attention on me. in my deathbed. with my ceiling fan.
the version of "white rabbit" from the new matrix movie trailer swells like hot sand in my sinus cavities. i can't seem to tell if i'm standing or not, but the heathers are approaching. the pressure increases so i hold my breath, but it's too late - i sneeze again and the birds, in perfect unison, leap into the air and fly away.
based loosely on, and written during, a series of semi-lucid dreams while running a mild fever
is what i thought i said to him, but he didn't react. he continued to type on his laptop as if i hadn't said anything at all. as if i wasn't there even. i want to tell him about the ceiling fan, but he's not listening. my eyes start to burn as hot, greasy tears fill the corners.
it has the presence of some mechanical extruder, each of the four blades twisting inward from horizontal to vertical, giving the impression that they are wrapping the central button light with infinite layers of white laminate, but that button light does not grow.
instead, the air thickens, displaced. it doesn't make sense that i would need to sneeze if i were dead, but apparently this ceiling propeller can push air across necromantic boundaries.
maybe i brought this ceiling fan over with me as i passed away? is it.. also dead?
i prop myself up on my elbow to peer out the window.
three dark gray birds alight, in perfect unison, on the power lines outside the window. in perfect unison, the tilt their tiny heads to face me. i believe it's a trick of perspective, but they have landed in an orientation, on separate power lines, that makes it look like they are in a perfect triangle.
they are three perfect heathers, a holy trinity, come to collect their dues. in perfect unison, they flinch from a loud sound, but in perfect unison, they refocus their attention on me. in my deathbed. with my ceiling fan.
the version of "white rabbit" from the new matrix movie trailer swells like hot sand in my sinus cavities. i can't seem to tell if i'm standing or not, but the heathers are approaching. the pressure increases so i hold my breath, but it's too late - i sneeze again and the birds, in perfect unison, leap into the air and fly away.
based loosely on, and written during, a series of semi-lucid dreams while running a mild fever