One

feetboot

He was still shaking. Stop it!, he thought so loudly he almost said it. Someone was looking at him again. Go away. He wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening, like he always did. He wanted to float back into the nebulous garble behind his eyelids. Every time he stood up from the dusty, oily piles of plastic upon which he dreamed, he got one step closer to having to admit defeat and move on. Where, however, was still an abstraction – like knowing the upcoming layout of a stranger’s house without rounding the next corner.

Good. The person was leaving. He never spoke to members of the constantly morphing group of derelicts and junkies around him. He didn’t want to become involved in the directionless, continuity-devoid soap opera that they conducted to draw attention away from their miserly misery. Community, was the word. They were a lot like most groups of people he’d gotten familiar with, actually. Overly dramatized interpersonal relationships devised to distract people from their realities. That didn’t bother him, though. Sometimes he was even jealous of their singular belief in the status of their own existence.

He knew he was a cuckoo here amongst the pigeons. But if he could just stop thinking about it so much, maybe he could linger a bit longer. Stay in this nest and eat his filthy semi-digested worms for just one more day before having to shed the mucous that bound his wings. Birds. Blue daylight – blustery static monolith. Ears hear ears hear ears hear only if my hands can touch. He felt himself slipping into what was once called a tonic clonic, back when people said things to him and he was better at pretending he didn’t hear them. Now they had a different name, and he irritatingly couldn’t help but respond when talked to, but the difference was he didn’t care so much anymore. So he couldn’t remember what this was called. But he knew what it was.

He was still shaking. He was still thinking. He was going to have to get up.

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