Do kiwis dream of sheared sheep?

There is no ticking of a clock or wristwatch (where did I put that thing by the way?) that marks the dark discontent which enshrouds my eyes. This eerie silence is only cut short by the occaisonal flurry of rain and the occaisonal auditory hallucination. A Guy Ritchie movie flickers across the television, forcing my eyes to occaissonally dart to something other than the cell phone screen on which this post is being written. This is not Alphaville, nor is it Saigon, this is Gainesville, a trap for the mind and soul from which their is no return. Guess i will try my hand a Poe-esque short story.

The blank sheet of paper screamed at him, hurling insults and darting curses as if were a game animal that had just been tagged and knew that its breaths were becoming a rare commodity. The words of anguish were whizzing by him like machine gun fire and yet there was silence. The torment that his ears were suffering was not born in the physical world, but in that side space of existence where one cannot seperate the real from the imaginary. Rain danced upon the rooftop as if flocks of mosquitos were ramming into the windows by the millions. And yet the page stared back at him in that mocking, blank fashion. What was he to fill it with? Words of wisdom, a few bolts of humour into the thunderstorm of humanity, or the spider web strand fragility of existence that plagues some forlorn human souls? Despite these hypotheses, there was no experimental text that could lead to a successful conclusion. The rain droned on, and the page remained blank. Some springs runneth over and others run dry, not due to any measurable geological cause, but simple which hand of fate has been washed. Today the paper could have been the Sahara.
He sat down, tilted his head to the side and glared at the paper. What cruel mistress had promised him a muse and sent him in its place a harpy, nay, a Gorgon. For a mind that had seemed so full of fantasy and ambition was now frozen in granite, forced to go through eons of erosion before ever seeing the surface again. He drew out his trusty pocketknife from his pocket. This was not one of those fanciful devices which seemed to hold every tool, gadget, and wiget a man could need beneath its slick exterior. It attached neatly to his keys and contained one blade and a pair of scissors. The exterior was anything but sleek, as there were numerous pits and scratches where the device had been put to use under duress. It was this tool he took and and began to cut the piece of paper. It was a cathartic experience, as he seemed to be cutting at the very life of those caustic voices. It was difficult at first, the shrieking words of contempt seeming to multipy and reach a crescendo before eventually tapering off and dying altogether. When they were finally silent, looked at the remains. Twelve identical rectangles now sat before him, each emitting and eerie glow as the white reflected off the candlelight. He started to remember the days when he fooled around with origami, and wondered if the activity of making something physically would somehow translate mentally into opening up the creative process, which had seemed to bottle itself up with the most stubborn of corks. Yet indecisiveness swept over him again, what should he make, what would symbolize the rebirth of his creativity. He thought of his ideas marching by him, and yet he failing to grasp on to any of them. Then it came to him, as obvious as gravity to a black hole, he would make a little troupe of soldiers. As chinese emperors had done so before him, he would make a symbolic army to demonstrate his prowess. As theirs was of terracota, his would be of paper.
A frenzied pace of activity soon followed, as he created a suqad of men to represent his ideas; murder,suicide,revenge,love,loss, and lust, they were all there. After an hour or so, he leaned the chair back and admired his handywork. There his little soldiers stood, waiting to provide him inspiration for their appropriate theme, much like small statues of the muses during antiquity. As quick as a quark, the storm outside intensified, and he went to make sure that the windows were latched hardily. Just as he was inspecting the las one, it blew open and extinguished all the candles in the room. He quickly closed the window in the dark and began searching for some matchez. He failed to notice when the lightning illuminated the tenebrous spaces of the house, something else was moving. He moved towards the table, only to trip over the fallen chair. But how did it fall? He braced his arm to bring himself up, only to discover that he had severly twisted his ankle, maybe even have broken it. The adrenaline had somehow masked the pain. He further adjusted his arm to maneuver himself into position so he could stand on one leg. That was when he felt something scurry across his arm. At first it felt like it was a large insect or maybe even a spider, but the contact seemed to be a bit too scratchy for that. And like water pouring through a breaking dam, the voices of malice returneed.
Think you can destroy us by changing our form? You are gravely mistaken! Soon scratches began occurrong all over his body, becoming deeper and deeper until they broke the skin. They soon started becoming more concentrated higher up on his body. Surely his neck could not fall to this paper army?

Prolly absurd, but what the hell its late anyways. Hope you enjoyed the read.


Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4231 NW 77th Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,