(no subject)
The way the light came through, the ceiling and one wall were always darker, somehow bluer. It made them seem more solid, such that he came to think of his room as a lean-to. The lesser walls were like concentrations of air, thicker versions of clouds. He had early moved the head of his bed against the one trusted wall and lay perpendicular to its middle. Eyes closed, he thought of the world as wheeling about, careening really, before him and beside him and beneath his boxsprings. But he himself was safely shelved, warranted from behind and above. Walking about on city streets he often noted a similar sensation. The two directions his eyes knew least about, up and back, were so seldom problems that they felt not just blacked out but nonexistent. Until betrayed by a sportive bird's shit or fast and inattentive walker's jostle this illusion could be sustained. After that, though, walking down the street seemed more like an effort to escape some indefatigable wall of world pursuing him while seeking out new ceilings for protection from freefalling skies. His face felt skulless, then, or his skull more like an egg than a stone. It was surprising how much else that seemed to change. What he said, say, and to whom.