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epistle log 11even
boom
there i sat, lights off, per mission begging the night to stay a little longer, meshing stowe and thoreau on the screen as the cool breeze raised the hair all over me and the rain whispered past the window and my fingers massaged the words through so much silicon and solder and phosphor tubes scanned back to my retina, not so far from where they originated, almost an organic positive feedback loop, scared that this machine becomes more than an extension of me, that it slowly becomes me; pushing this fear aside, or behind, but really following it close at bay, smelling it in every breath, smelling the dust that rises from its relentless stroll, pursuing me as i follow it as the trickle of sound takes me from the right and the whispering rain grows to a hiss behind me.
the light stops everything, even the fear, as it blots out the screen, pulls my pupils to pinpoints, electrifies my skin as the silence fills the room faster than liquid could dream
cut short by the towering thunderhead which comes in the blackness of my pinpoint pupils, refusing to let the light die through internal refraction, in the wet wool blanketing silence cutting through all, grabbing me up and out of my chair blind and trembling beneath my electrified skin feeling the hairs growing in the confused aftermath, fully upright and yet cowering but grinning laughing swallowing the delicious taste of a new fear, a fear much waited and yet always surprising standing half naked yet fully mortal, this mortality realized in the whispering rain and becoming notes and errant hair and glowing eyes, pupils dilating to diffuse the static energy that sheathed me
sometimes it rains
05|01|98