the sky before him was frighteninglyblue
it was oppressive
he was tempted not to continue in the direction he walkedtempted to return from where he came
why he left he couldnt saydidnt
remember
how long
had he been walking
he couldnt recall
it had to be before daylight
didnt it
he couldnt say
where was he going
he hadnt a clue
remembering he laughed to himself Im walkin here though
not remembering where he was walking
humour helped him transcend
confusion irritation upset helped on his waywherever he was going
still nothing NADA
the sky upset him
frighteninglyblue then his eye caught something down at the sharp horizon
it
hooked his eye
like
a fishhook
tugged on it
better follow along than resist hook tears out the eye
he liked it right where it was
a tree it seemed to be a tree jetblack etched against the frighteninglyblue like a crack in fine china a violation abused
closer
the tree was barren leafless
blackheavy trunk guessseveneight
metres up splits in three left and
center are ominous branched the right
limb is snappedjaggedly off threefour
metres of accusingblackness
closer
it
resembles ascending lightning a
blackshard spit out of the earth
closer
ohshit O shit OHSHIT its not a treethe skys cracked a jeblackness depth behind the skycurtain
he begins to
backpedalnot taking his eye off it Take the eye I donwanit hoping he hadnt
approached too closehadnt made itmade it aware of him
blackshard
ascendinglightning
frighteninglyblue
the
blue grewbluer
black grewblacker
it pursued himhe
turned to r . . .
The
past is never dead. It’s not even past.
0619, Twosday,
9 3. 21
1234, Twosday,
9 3. 21
Faulkner
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