For some reason I am on the roof of a building.
GranulationS of the surface (crunch ... crunch, crunch) mightily under my feet. Wind wraps around my head forming a coccoon of resonating
sound
the sound
(THE RAGE)
reverberates in my stomach and throat.
My arms are as thistledown at my sides;
the air is charged with anticipation.
.
[pulse]
.
[pulse]
.
My skin grows hypersensitive, as if I am being tickled and pricked and teased with hairlike whispy needles that fuse with the pulse under my skin, coursing through my veins, yanking my brain into over-awareness.
Steely clouds m o v e at abnormally fast speeds over my head.
The sun is gone.
Everything looks gray. The sky overhead shifts and reshapes and gives birth to new forms which crackle and snap with popcorn thunder. A tornado forms on the twisted skyline beyond, racing towards
thiS (THIS. HERE. NOW.)
desolate cityscape on which I stand (on top of the world) perched. The lightness in my arms courses through my body in one lightning moment, and I zip from the rooftop to a balcony nearby.
( but, BUT, there is something else, something ... )
The tornado knows my thoughts before I do. It decends down upon me, crushing me under its weight, threatening to draw me in, but I feel a weakness in its pull and dance away again. It follows with a supernatural certainty. Infinite regress.
.
[wakeup]
.
[wakeup]
.
The grandest visions come to me during mid-afternoon naps.