Twelve Four Twenty.
And once more.
I swear it real.
This was it. The single-sided page stuck to the window. Impossibly , she saw it not in flight of whence , nor the path in origins.
The whipping slap jolted the surrounds as bereft of task she cried out. . . . ...softly... . . . no . , . , ...
That heartfelt break from the lost persona of who she'd once been now followed a new line a new channel of thoughts , ideas , and consequence. So much in embracing the old familiars , but who can say.
That was it. On the outside. Prepared.
Dare she read lest it blow.
Harkening . she went for fastest , opening the door & slapping her hand over the plank. Sheltering the wind of her other time in telling. So sweet. She smelled the mint & feint of sage under the rustle in smokeless fog.
The crunch alighted decendence as her deft massage peeled the page , singly , seventy-seven. Oh my. She shuddered lightly in the chill of a brisk howl. Not of wind , but of voice. A whisper deep & concerned. Aura Yew.
A strangled church. A blanket made of bugs. All linked for a moment eating each other as covering , such relentless seeking swell.
She wanted to scream. Remove the blanket . so disgusting.
.......but she waited.
So impossible.
Why did the light have to be so. So white.
The smallty of the blanket. Where'd the mass withdraw to. exactly. a million bugs. nah. less , maybe a few hundred thousand , but still.
Where in the hell had they gone. Eaten to the last in the same pivotal moment. Swallowed & disappeared. To wear to where impossible.
The store had its sign nearly worn out for newness. The end of days.
An end of distributive comforts aligned for cookers , bedders , & beyond. Wares Inc.. Closing the location , but not the rest.
All because of her. Norda Storm.
12-13-2020
