These pencil shavings are immersive and I struggle to breath. My eyes aren't open but I know I'm in a box. All around me -- up, down, side to side. These pencil shavings are not an accident. The box is a five-foot square, completely full of shavings. I'm a part of this, and the pencil shavings spill over. The floor piles are contaminated and can't be used.
The rock has been polished to a remarkable sheen -- a lustrous and dripping mirrored finish. The kind of rock that is slippery when wet and even more so when dry. Flip it over in my pocket once. I remove my hand and the rock turns perpetually. The gleaming rock could make teeth chatter in the winter. But this is summer, so it just spins in my pocket.
I've been wearing this eyelash for days.
But it has not illuminated your vision.
How it affected the original owner, we may never know.
A box arrives on the doorstep addressed to you, return address from you. After considering the legal ramifications for some time, I finally open it, only to find it empty except for a barely legible note scrawled on a receipt. I'm sorry. I couldn't take this box anymore. I had to leave, it said.
When it settles on the roof like this, the ceiling is bound to bleed. While it does drip into the sink occasionally, it mostly likes to remain congealed. This pancake-sized spot of reddish viscosity is not the answer, but maybe the drip in the sink. That drip, floating in tepid water. It's not the drip itself, but what caused the drip, and it's not gravity or time. I scoop up the drip and wrap it in a handkerchief.
Finally, she moves. Sitting with her arms crossed, she rocks back and forth in her chair, the chair itself not moving. She rocks faster, increasing friction. Then a spark, followed by a small flame. Waves of heat course through her body, traveling from limb to limb. Yellow flames envelope her, growing hotter until a blinding, white fire shrouds her. When the flame dies out, only scorch marks remain. The dogs lick the dark spot where she once sat.
A clump of yellow sticks to the doorknob. There's something that causes the stick, but it's not red like you might think. Nor white or blue. Colorless really, and transparent more accurately. Transparency adopts the color of whatever it covers, in this case the doorknob, so the stick this time is brass colored. There's an element of yellow to the stick as well, most likely from the hair, but also possibly from faded brass. The only change after removing the transparency is the loss of stick, which makes the yellow fall.
The rock again, but it's not spinning. There are shavings in my mouth. Will they be of any greater value in my ears, pockets, or over my eyes, combined with the rock? It sings music, sweats motion, teeters on the brink of immolation, and even so, it may not be a rock, could be a seed, could be the reason it doesn't spin. The difference may be key, but don't discount the effect of commonality.
Your grandmother has transformed from living, geriatric being to corpse, to cadaver, to decaying flesh underground, and will eventually become bones only. Bones some day decompose to a fine dust. The cheap box housing her will also break apart, and she will be absorbed by the earth. At which point has she disappeared? Is disappearance actually possible?
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