This is the situation.

It’s dark and cloudy. You can’t tell if that smoke is from the burning trash or from your lungs. You’re trying to rush and you don’t know why your feet won’t obey. Obey whom? You don’t know that either. You don’t know who’s in charge.

Just that you aren’t.

Somewhere in the darkness a match lights. The smoke thickens. Stars fall gracefully but it’s loud and startling. You don’t know why your feet refuse to move. You’re standing on a pile of plastic and the plastic is melting and demanding you join. It’s hot and getting hotter and you feel the stars fall around you and you shout but no one can see you.

The plastic raises itself to graze your hand as if a child crossing the street and although it burns you and the tiny hairs lacing the back of your hand scream at you to do something, anything you cannot. The plastic snakes around your hand and wrapping itself around your wrists. Sheathes. Lazy, it curls itself upwards, gathering strength from the sea of plastic in which you are immersed. It becomes a shell, molding itself to your body, casting your body, absorbing you.


A thought. The breath of your thought wisps in the cold dark air.


Another wisp joins the first and there is a jolt of electricity. They fuse. Weak, but, pulsing. Like eyelids after a long sleep.


More wisps. Lazy. Pulsing. The plastic is swimming past your biceps, your arms to your side. It approaches your neck now. Climbing and snaking and you are powerless.


You see it. In the darkness it is cast translucent and the smoke from the burning trash—your burning lungs—outlines the sea of white and green and brown. It is stark now and daunting and you want to close your eyelids but you can’t they won’t obey. Obey whom? You don’t know. You’ve never known.


Another breath launches itself and fuses and there is a spark and a jump and you feel something. Death? The plastic has cocooned your neck now and you see it, thick and hot and sweltering. You try to close your eyelids but they won’t obey.


The spark is greater and it’s blue and it’s hot but no, that’s the plastic, but it feels different this time.


The smoke from the burning trash your burning lungs is rushing up to you now and soon the plastic sheath will consume your mouth and your nose and your eyelids and you will join the sea and all you see is smoke and it’s hot but it feels different this time.


Why does it feel different?


What is that? What is that? Why does it feel so different? Has the oozing pith slowed it’s course? Is it…receding? No, surely no, that can’t be, it’s hot and the smoke from the burning trash your burning lungs your burning flesh but something is different and it’s different.


Your eyelids focus on pulsing blue light pulsing strong and smokey pulsing against the shell on your hand and your find your hand melt and you wiggle your fingers your fingers can wiggle but how? Obey whom? Who’s in charge? Your hand is free now and your fingers can wiggle and there’s smoke so much smoke from the burning trash your burning lungs—but wait.


The smoke. It isn’t the trash. Not the lungs. It’s blue smoke. The wisp. The breath. The breath of thought.


It smells like song and your forearm is free and you touch the plastic on your shoulder with your free wiggle fingers and it’s soft and flakes. You brush your fingers against it and it flakes. You rake your fingers against it, brushing, scrubbing, pulling, freeing and your shoulder is free and the smoke is against your neck and your neck is moving and you turn your head and you think away the plastic cocoon the plastic sheath.


It falls like sheets like dried paint like corn flakes into the breakfast bowl it falls. You lift your foot. You kick, you free yourself from the sea and the blue light smoke from your breath punishes the plastic sea and you are free and you are moving and you are rushing and there is light, where is the light, what is that light, where are you going, you are moving and you are rushing and the plastic is flaking and what is that light, that one, right there, that one—yes, that one! Yes, right there, there is something in that light, that blue light cast so silhouette against smoke stars fall and it’s graceful and not so loud and what’s in the light, there is something there, you see it, you can smell it, you reach out your hand and you brush your fingers upon



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