Ants

Just about to nail myself to the table, a voice, a dull thud, swept me from my actions. Leaning towards the floor bits of glass shimmered and caught my eyes. Don’t always know reality. Is this reality? Senses feel like battling for my attention and merging in the process. What day was it? Thursday. Not really sure, the fucking calendar on the fucking machine broke down when I turned the dial. What is this sticky. Oh shit. It’s blood. What is all this fucking blood doing in my clothes? Is it mine? And where is that voice coming from? The nail is falling slowly from my hand. It’s not touching the table. It is not touching the table. It isn’t. One time, two times, three, the numbers could go to infinity and never finish. The tingling that was in my hand has spread. It is now creeping, climbing up my arm, like a pack on little black ants, ferocious wolf-insects. Is this my other hand, writing? What about all these letters and symbols going through my head-machine? Plugged? Yes, it is (was?) plugged. Food for the ants. The little fuckers have taken my body entirely, but there’s no place to stay. Shit, all of the problems before back when Judith and I were still researching the bits of data spawned from the very depths of the inner circuitry. A noise. What? The door? There’s a door? Yes, you fucked up slider, look at the door. It’s opening. My eyes see that. It is a door. My door turning on its hinges, wooden, heavy. Got it cheap, yes did, remember it like it was yesterday. But who is turning it? Forty-five, antique shop by the sideroad, going to Houston. Many years ago. It is now open, what is going to happen? It is a friend, I’m not sure. Where is the blood now. Has it gone, yet? Well. Come in. Shit, well don’t just stand there, come in, stupid, motherfucking invisible piece of nothingness. But why this face? Oh shit, no this can’t be. It looks like me, fuck, It’s me. It’s my fucking face staring back at me, like some weird disembodiment spiritual, out-of-body, experience. But I’m not dead. Neither is he but appears expensive. My head, mine, not his, just mine, is about to touch the floor. A single hair stretches out and reaches the ground. I expect the pain. He is going to the walls, walking, crawling the walls. Fuck this is not good. The escalade foretells a very chaotic path. Wild synapsis taking over. Oh, he grabs the machine, that is, me. Wait, don’t turn the dial. Fuck. Why will I never listen. A wave of pain ripples through my skull, It feels like jelly, the eyes pingpoeing inside their sockets. Darkness falls. The ants. The ants!

22/06/2011