. . .

Stars spin around the lump in his thoughts. They weave into great chains; they adhere; they sparkle.

Chaotic, unformed sensations pour in rivers along his arms and legs. His eyes flutter. He fills his abdomen with breath and locks it, holding it in against the heaving of his lungs. Growing through the chest of him like a black and branching tree —

He is still disoriented; forgive the synaesthesia of it —

He feels an idea.

<< . . .

. . . >>