For a long time he stood with the lights out, looking through the blinds at the gravel lot and the incessant lights of the trucks going by on the highway. He counted thirty-seven of the 86,400 seconds of the day, tried to time each of his thoughts in time with his heartbeat. His mind fell over itself, impossible rings of colour almost blinded him and he paused. He could see a green dress lifted by the wind on the streets of Harlem as infinite laughter spilled down the walls, running along sidewalks and concrete playgrounds.
He set his glass of water down at his feet. The water was dead. Bubbles attached themselves to the glass, trying to escape from hydrogen bonds. There was something in the water, in this part of the city, people who sat as shadows or silhouetted behind windows pumped it in. The water tasted and seemed the same, yet it brought a thirst which could not be satisfied, and the more you drank of it, the more it cut the stomach open.
The police were finding signs of human sacrifice in some of the empty warehouses. Old factory buildings long since plundered, where a few rusting sewing machines gathered dust, became the setting of magnificent crimes. Foreign press officers goggled and took photographs. Some even became sick and wrote some kind words about humanity. But there was blood and pieces of humans on the floor, and crude markings and symbols tried to relay some sort of message. No-one knew who died. Everyone in this place was missing, according to the government at-least.
“Disappeared.” Was what some of the children whispered to him when he asked where their mothers were. He tried to feel something for them as he looked into their eyes. But he found only a lack or absence. Perhaps manifested as a form of hunger. A result of thinking too much. https://samuel-dodson.com/
Thanks to Mark M .Whelan
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