Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Write a Novel in November, Post #9

"I am running, running through a wood. My hair is sap and the sap is from the wood. My feet are terribly calloused and terribly white for feet. The sun sounds like a song I once heard in a waiting room. In the waiting room by brain is split into heavens. There are strings falling from the wood or falling from the sky. Dare not call this heaven. No one can talk to me because I can only hear the strings. Everything else is muted. Even my hands are numb and my lips are numb and when the sap breaks apart it doesn't snap. The snap is mute but I can feel it in my brain, like a thick germ pulsing, pushing itself around, then bursting into dust."

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