By Scatter
Photo by Francesco Ungaro
An infection of the sebaceous follicles seems to be spreading. It pervades all space and enters all bodies. I walk to the mirror and check my skin. No spots or tell-tale little red hills. As I look, my head turns full circle on my shoulders. It begins to spin, faster and faster. My vision is a blur as I feel my head spinning at the speed of dreams. My head has left my body. It spins away from me and out the window. Detached, I watch as it passes before a sick-yellow moon and vanishes over the horizon. It’ll be back by morning. I feel the Earth breathe and spill out behind me, the pulse of the Familiar pour over me, its rasping gasps clawing at raw horizons around and within me, raking at my gravity. I sense the Familiar beside me, a calming grasp reaching out for me, a voice in my head calling out to me, reaching and touching…its roots going down and curling, nudging into my depths, down in the dark where the pain is buried, where the soil and blood and stone first made my bed.
There will be no sleep for the Moondog tonight.
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