wide line self hollow rare track twist eye trance trudge powder empty
Coma
“Do you think he can hear us?”
◊
Fragments. Self. Others.
Fragments of life—jumbled.
Scrambling, tumbling.
Like a trance. But not.
Lost. Found. Puzzled.
A birthday party. Mine?
A bush track, somewhere.
I trudge behind.
Bells! A wedding. Whose?
A line of guests. Not me.
A woman? Mother?
I can smell soap.
“Wash your face, it’s filthy”.
Dancing! The Twist!
“Open wide!”
Ugh! Bex Powder!
A house! Who’s?
Hollow, empty, dusty, dark.
A letter. A rare treat.
It vanishes.
A dog, is it mine? Not sure.
Warm, brown eyes.
I hear voices. Familiar.
Distant.
◊
“No. Probably not”.
◊
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