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Overandoubt
They’re listening in on our telephone calls, and the others don’t care, not about you – not anymore. Not ever before. They wouldn’t dare, always waste more than kill time. At the restaurant they asked him what he wanted. “The Summer Spatial,” he said, because that’s what was written beware the sign. Tokyo rhyme.
He giggled.
…but then they brought it to him.
And left him snickered, he tasted blood.
From one into the other, then two out from the four – the answer knocks from behind a door. GRUESOME. There’s a remark for when your lantern’s out: you’re dead.
Their memories tumble to the sound of the word. Sneaking peeks from behind his shoulder – he knows. They’re always watching.
“It’s not meant to be a struggle.”
He hears them giving directions – but when lost – lost…and the wanderers in the world will never find their way.
Can’t cut straight.
A pigeon in the park this morning. Feathers scattered, neck clotted with blood. A crow had attacked it, but decided not to finish it off.
Feels a bit like you and me.
Posted by Invisibleye in: Experiences 
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1 July, 2010 