mr_wordsmith

VI.

His life became one single day echoing around the suna terminal-less twilight; an endlessly breaking dawnhere again and then...here again and then... here again and then...

V.

Day piled upon day and his alone-timewhich generally fell into that slot terminated on the one margin by a tasteless plate of food eaten with the mother-thing and on the other by the BREET! BREET! of his alarm in the morningwas pressed thinner and thinner between their unceasing accumulation until it simply disappeared.

IV.

He eventually discovered that with his right eye shut, his pen gripped awkwardly in his off-, left-hand and his attention affixed firmly to anything far, far away he could yet manage to scrawl in the blanks on the meaningless forms and respond with equal terseness to the terse-seeming memos that continued to pile up and over the 'in-box' throughout his endless days; also, that...
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III.

Work was equally alien: unknown coworkers regaling him with unknown tasks in a jargon that fell simply dead on his barren and confused brain.

II.

He ate his breakfast that day, and each subsequent day, with the thing that his eyes and memory, struggling stoicaly and in tandem, told his brain was his mother.

I.

Upon waking, Johannes found himself in a wholly new and different world: it looked and, albeit, smelled exactly like the world in which he had fallen asleep, but behind the familiarity there coiled something very un-home-like, indeed.

Happenstance in an upright bathtub;
Solid Liquid;
A hollow reed through the surface;
Gas!

Making some excuses,
yet refusing others;
Fashionista Fabrique:
A burning moral soup;
An ambergris broth;
A chance to recuperate.