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The moon is so bright it's hard to see. Summer’s Cassiopeia has long since set as Orion rises in the east, and, I don’t have shelter on this island-shoal (once peninsula). It’s hard to see with these old glasses… glasses without which I never would have survived to be in the aftermath of this disaster. This disaster we brought on ourselves.
Two hundred thousand years of progress ended in two hundred seconds. The madness of two hundred minds undoing the work of two hundred trillion. The lights of dead stars kiss me and make me hungry to go on.
The sand's hot on my naked feet, on my swollen toes.
The weight of knowledge doesn’t always weigh heavy. It can -- paradoxically -- leave you floating with an odd levity. It’s hard to explain. Every grain of sand I see is another terrible, wonderful fact -- or another item on my ever-growing never-to-do-again list.
I laugh aloud at that, and my voice sounds alien to my own ears. It’s all quiet, but for the wind on the palm trees. I look around, where are the others? My head! Where are my shoes?! Organize, think clearly - this way, that? Does it matter? Is that what they mean by dying alone? I’m alone!.. I feel the wind and move my arms like a palm tree.
And then another light appears in the heavens, blotting it out the moon, coalescing into a radiant figure. Has Jesus finally returned? Is this salvation? But no, the figure defines, sprouting six limbs, two antennae from a bullet body - a great celestial cockroach. It is the Second Coming... just not of our god.
Sudden sound inside my head like a dial-up modem playing backwards on a skipping CD, too too loud and the remaining corona of light around the Jesusroach strobing to no discernible rhythm, green and black negative after-images swimming between coruscating flares. Buzzing skin and a smell like ham and rotting fish.
It grabbed me, lifted me from the ground with its gluey leg - that horrid smell! - I was brought close to its scrutinising eye, rays of neon green and black light coming off the powerful back, its eye puzzled, turning around and back at me. Suddenly two pairs of wings opened - off we went - “NOOOOO!!!”
Fuck!" The gods awful stench of this creature, the tack and barbed hairs along its leg sticking me hard against its side, everything about it made me want to scream. The earth, far beneath me, lurched as the creature banked quickly to the left. "Where are you taking me?!"
There was a pressure at the base of my spine, then a burst of searing pain before a bright, tingling flash coruscated up my back from vertebra to vertebra. The sensation of being probed was horrifying and unstoppable -my mind was flayed open like a labial wound and I was found. "WHERE YOU ALL BELONG..."
Seriously? 100,000 years of developing to the glorious state we Homo Sapiens have arrived at, and a friggin’ astral roach is gonna probe me, drain my brain, and use that juice for it’s own nefarious plans to conquer the planet? Not! Time for some fantasy roach-mind-f*cking! What’ll it be? Descartes? Hesse? Timothy Leary (oh, why didn’t I drop that tab earlier…)?
Did i drop that tab earlier? Is this a mind bent flashback from '69? Cool, i'm talking to myself, ergo i am. Am i small? How small am i? This roach is dangling me like Bogart mouths a lucky strike. I'm thinking with roachmind, like, bad trip dude, brings me down. Where's my lighter?
Breathe. Breathe. I did that f*cking tab and many more. Terence McKenna said, "“Stop consuming images and start producing them.” I must have. So, did the world really end? Except my trippin' self, natch, since I am the one doing the talking here. And I don't see another soul. . . except . . .
Except I hear them. I can't see or move, that beast has got me tight in it's grip, but I hear screaming, somewhere to my right, I want to move my head but even that I can't. Must be whatever it is this roach has injected into my spine. Then, suddenly, it drops me. I scream.
Tenebrous radiance grew from my blindspot. Consumed with a sensation of rapid attenuation, I slide down an esophageal passage. Re-coalescing with a snap, I look across a small ornate table to a young red haired girl with vivid green eyes passing me a tiny china cup. “How were your affairs on the continent?”, she asked,
Her eye's became my eye's as I let out a deep roar. Her eye's had pop. She somehow filled my empty spinal cavity with warmth, she handed me her tea cup and then stood behind me, "I know how bad it's been bad," taking her knuckles, digging, twisting, the horror that grows in my shoulders.
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