Survivors Log #12
[Redacted] days after WHIPPOORWILL
Another day amid the crowded ecosystem that is my shelter. The plants grow and wither and dry and are moistened through the roots. The signs of straight, narrow, human lines and simple Euclidean geometry seem to fade in and out like an optical illusion. It's like that piece of art, sometimes you see an old woman, and sometimes you see a young woman. Sometimes it's a wine glass and sometimes it's two faces. Except instead of young women or cups, the thing that jumps and sinks out of the orderly, synthetic, biosphere is...
I don't know what it is. It is every broken cup, every rotting corpse. It is the smile on the face of a long-shot pioneer who strikes gold. It is encrusted on the bed sheets in your motel-room. It's always there. It never leaves.
That blank wall, with dark trim. So pristine, so symmetrical. But if you look closer, you see the stains...the marks. The scuffs. Scratches. Paint strokes. Molecules. Atoms. You look down...down. Down. Down. Down. Down downdowndowndowndowndowndw [continues incoherently]