He woke up disconnected from the world. He softly scratched his head. Touch. Touch. His mind came into being--his head brought into existence, his face a mirror. Feeling about, touch, touch, he realized the sprawling floor, the desk and the computer. He pushed his palm forward and a window stood pressed against his bones. His eyes, touch, touch, brought a blanket of light to the chill grass, the sprouting weeds. Where he stepped, a path formed, where he breathed, air came, where he stopped, he observed. There is never so lovely a sight as a world still.
December 03, 2008
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pressed against his boners?
Posted by: dima | December 16, 2008 at 01:58 PM