return home

everything is very, very, very still. not an assuring stillness. a scary stillness. unnerving, it makes you think that somehow you have escaped time. you have risen above it.
events happen in neither fast nor slow succession, everything isn't smooth but it has no feature.

you are with me. right here, sitting next to me, right? the landscape rushes beneath us, you can see that out the window. but nothing is moving. there is no steady procession of time like you grew up with, the procession you have suckled upon and leaned upon and the one that beat you down every time you thought you conquered it.

i have a very long needle in my knapsack. (hey, where did that come from anyway) and i poke a hole in the ceiling (huh? he was sitting down on the couch? how did