“It’s all out of… it’s like we’re running out of time. All we’ve got is time.”
I take mine. Sneak around under thickheavy sky. No one’s in. You can tell. Eyes are empty—light fails to do its job.
Break. No hitches. No need to look around. It’s there. On the windowsill. A clock. An instrument to measure…. time. It’s an old one too. One that looks like it holds a dear memory of a loved one. Time to die again.
REPETITION OF ANCIENT CURSE
The clock is smashed to pieces on the living room table. I need more space. All this useless junk—material totems weighing you down—dulling existence—food for parasites. It’s going on the floor.
I smash the clock up more. These pieces are too big. Face and hands and inner organs, spilt unnaturally onto the grimwhite of the table cloth. Still too big. I need something… but there’s nothing here to do the job. The kitchen. Always the kitchen—
I’m looking around and see a toaster. I put my hand in the toaster and felt some little people in there. Little people who attacked my fingers. I pulled out my hand and unplugged the toaster and tipped out them out into the bin. This’ll do.
If I had more time I’d do it better. Make actual dust. But I have none left. This’ll do. A time joint. My own recipe. Light it sky-high.
WRAPPED IN FICTION
Is time travel the transmigration of souls? I move outside and find a new place. A new body. My soul is me. This new me, a different me… does it have a different soul? Is this it? Met him pike hoses—the joint is taking effect. No need to stay in one of those… locks. Every hour, a small alteration. This time is out of… It’s wasted time.
The walls are green. Shifting green. Stars and cosmic creep. The final stop is near. Tune in… times up.
UMBILICAL DISCORD 