A man finds himself waking up in a room.
The room is without feature.
Blank.
Like him, he is blank.
His mind probes within, a lurking memory.
Blank is the only response received.
The room is lit, but it does not contain a source.
The man is alive, but does not have a name.
He gets up off the pallid floor.
The concept of walking is familiar.
The muscles contract and extend, he has done this before.
And with this he is brought to the center.
He looks down, the floor is brightest here.
He looks up, the ceiling bears no bulb.
Yet still the rays pour out.
He reaches up and his fingertips graze the metal above.
Blank.
Upon touching the ceiling, a noise startles him.
Bills of some kind of currency flow out of the wall.
They appear as though they were always in the room.
He smiles out of instinct, more familiarity from a life lived prior.
Before he was blank.
As he approaches the stream of currency, the room begins to surge with water.
He does not acknowledge the flow and continues trying to reach the tender.
The current is too strong and he is swept off his feet.
He slams against the wall on the opposing side of the room.
The smile still plastered to his face.
The familiarity still burning in his mind.
His eyes bear no memory, they merely observe.
They merely observe the flood, as he is engulfed in the water.
They merely observe the currency, still on the floor where it appeared.
They merely observe the blank walls that darken and fade away from view.
They wonder if the light is being snuffed out.
Or if they are.
YOU ARE READING
Lines
RandomA mess of stuff that won't fit elsewhere. Some are pretty absurdist, no direct continuity unless stated (doubtful on that, these are meant to be one-off poems/stories). I like to explore different styles of writing in small works like this, so some...
