sketch for the Floating Moon

He first started forgetting the little things, like the taste of those chewy pineapple candies that (his best friend) Tom’s mum used to give him at the end of soccer practice every friday after school.

Memories like those didn’t matter all that much to him though so he persisted with his daily conquests; all the while ignoring the expanding abyss that lingered closely behind him.

He doesn’t know what he wants right now, because he can’t exactly remember what it feels like to want something. But he does like the way she starts stretching when she’s nervous around him and her tendency to exaggerate her blinking when she’s grappling with a foreign concept. These quirks in conjunction with other, more superficial observations were enough for him to agree to go out fly fishing with her on a tuesday evening when the moon was at its highest peak.

“How high are you?” “6 ft 3”

He didn’t like the way she knew what he was going to say next. He didn’t trust that. She couldn’t be trusted. There was something unnatural about it all. Or more so, too natural, too.. how would one put it? Too ethereal perhaps. Too far removed from the physicality of the human plane. That which is a necessity for survival, for his survuval, for the survival of every one of us (whether we admit it or not).That which is conducive to grounding, that which signifies order.

I fumble as I accidentally rip the door off its hinges and sprawl out on the floor with my oil pastels (an alternate word form for the widely used Modern English term, ‘crayons’ utilized by the creative elite to distance themselves from associations to the naive cognitive states of the human child).

We are whales

Swimming in whale waters

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