Today, or more aptly tonight, you'll be hanging over each
and every one of us in the space above our beds. Absent color or sound, you'll gaze upon us,
just the faintest whiff of ozone coloring the air between body and ceiling
implying terror without explicitly stating anything, drowning out the want of
flesh in lieu of fear, fear that death will come to find you, fear that love
will never appear in the tinny spectrum of our days, fear that we or the ones we
love or every hand we've ever shaken will fall, will die, leaving us alone in a
world with only strange, hostile animals and cold, unconcerned celestial lights
for company.
You'll be minding your own business, to be totally fair, at
most moderately curious about what we're thinking, about how we're feeling,
about the manner in which the world might look from the eyes of such tiny
corporeal beings, possessed of a single body, a single mass, a single point of
existence. You'll wonder how lonely it
must be to be one of us, so small, so significant in our own minds yet so
fragile. You imagine it must be tedious,
being so scared all the time, but exciting, even arousing all the same. You'll wonder if we'll ever be capable of
comprehending you, your raw pulsing nothingness stretching up to the ceiling,
trailing down to the ground, fizzling the very air as you, multitudinal you,
exists in hundreds of thousands of locations all at once. After humming there briefly, you'll feel a
pang of sympathy for us, but it will vanish fast, for whatever else you might
feel, natural purpose will override all, and you are nothing if not a vague
menace possessed of purpose.
Congratulations Vague Menace!
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