Lower Your Head

I just can't get my head straight. I skipped work today. I'm not sure where I thought I was going -- maybe nowhere -- but I took off on foot. After a while I noticed that the city seemed hushed. I heard no street arguments, no car horns. I went down into the subway and while it contained the usual number of people cris-crossing on their way to the moments of their lives, each was completely silent. There was no eye contact, everyone living that moment inside their own heads. Or perhaps nowhere.

I thought I caught a glimpse of a woman on the tracks, arms outstretched to receive the coming train. But then it arrived, and I wasn't so sure. Nobody else seemed to notice.

The Unavoidable State of Wakefulness

I made a friend today.

I was wandering around under the east bridge looking for a place to lie down among the dusty, genderless bodies so that I could pull the tab on my self-heating burrito without bringing too much attention to myself. I didn't stick out too badly -- I wasn't the only one in a torn and filthy three-piece suit -- but you can't go pulling out that kind of treasure in a place like that. I planned on being sneaky.

I was beginning to suspect that maybe my suit wasn't torn enough or dirty enough, and that perhaps I had already drawn too much attention to myself when I felt something warm touch me. I looked down at a small dark girl pulling at my hand.

"Um," I said.

"Come," she said quietly. "You can not stop here or they will cut your throat and take your shiny shoes."

I tried to look at my feet as she led me away. She stepped gingerly over bodies and I kept tripping over them and muttering apologies. My shoes had probably cost a shitload, but they didn't seem the least bit shiny to me. I stopped scrutinizing my shoes and thought to wonder about this girl. She wore a dark shapeless garment made of a rough fabric like those big bags that coffee shops like to hang on their walls. She looked like she was maybe from India or something. Couldn't be older than ten. Maybe twelve. I don't know kids.

Whenever I started to ask where she was taking me, she just shushed me in a motherly way and said, "Come." She took me down an alley where a Japanese restaurant's trash overflowed with fish parts and carefully slid back a piece of recycled plastic plywood to reveal a dark hole. She said "come" again and disappeared inside. I had to crawl in on my hands and knees.

The thought of this being some sort of trap was just dawning on me when a dim yellow light flickered on. She had rigged some sort of electric light inside a diffuser made of oily paper. We were in some kind of crawlspace and it was clear that this girl lived here, probably alone. Around the light was built a sort of shrine made up of pretty rocks and interesting bits of trash. Next to that was a crinkly nest made of balled up plastic bags covered with a pile of soft rugs.

"Sit," she said, "you look very tired."

She sounded Indian, but just a little.

"Why did you take me here?"

She smiled slightly. "You need someone to take care of you. You would never last out there."

"What's your name?"

"So many questions," she said. "My name is Dil. You should sleep. I will bring food."

Dil vanished through the hole and slid the board back in place. Shortly before I dozed off, I realized that I should have given her my burrito.

Well-Traveled

When I signed up for this, I felt omnipotent. It's clear now that they intended for me to fail. Running over the events in my mind, I find too many coincidences. Too many close calls.

Without realizing it, I had begun to trust them. They must have known that. They let me think they needed me, and I ate it up. My mistake. I'd have done the same to them.

Unfortunately, I don't seem to have taken any critical damage. Could they have known that would happen? Probably. I wonder what I did to piss them off?

I'm going to have plenty of time to get to know this twisted steel coffin. The air, water, and nourishment systems -- all working. Everything else is toast. Even the disaster beacon is dead, and that should have been fucking indestructible.

Not even the lights work. Why couldn't they have left me some light? Did I really steal so much?

I look forward to madness.

Home Trepanation Kit

This city has a ceiling of luminescent slate the color of new concrete. It seems within reach, but in fact just clears the tallest buildings. Being completely featureless, the eyes can't focus on it, but it knows we're here.

And it doesn't fucking care.

I woke staring up into this unchanging expanse, though I didn't know it. I clearly remember building a nest of trash in the corner of the third level in my favorite parking garage, and I assumed I was staring, eyes unfocused, at the close ceiling. I soon realized, however, that the characteristic parallel scrapes of truck antennas was missing. Also, no-one had attempted to park on me yet.

Waking up on top of a 12 story building with no roof access always fucks me up. The firement were nice, but a little bewildered. I managed to skulk off before anyone thought to press trespassing charges.

I've been wearing this suit for 8 days now, and I think it might be starting to show. I should probably go home and change sometime in the next few days if I still have my keys.

My drugs ran out.

Time stutters and jerks. 10:32 AM lasted for about 3 hours, but I completely skipped the territory between 2:14 PM and 3:37 PM. I keep yawning even though I don't feel tired. My jaw aches and my throat feels thick I'm yawning so much. I'm going to do myself mischief if I don't stop.
I keep playing with this stupid black paper clip thing. My fingertips are sore from the raw edges. I can't stop touching things.

Am I making noise?

Can my coworkers tell? Am I emanating some sort of strange aura of chemical need? Am I obviously confused? Licking my lips too much?

You fucker.