By T. Wallace
You stand for a moment, then you sit. Your heart seems to stretch. Your eyes can’t focus for more than a moment. The infernal place where you sit seems to breathe with torridity, casting a shining web of icey warmth on your skin.
Your body radiates, as you become lethargic. To all around you appear in a state of placation, indifferent to the world, though in your mind you have gone mad. The world warps in and out, casting copies of itself on your vision.
The pouring water becomes an essential brio, a rare lifeline. The humming wasps, phantasmagorical spearheads, flying death. Undergrowth, prowling wraiths, tearing beasts. Some horrible whomping croak can be heard somewhere, everywhere. The sinister deathtone of a leviathan bullfrog.
The sun glares down sinisterly, taunting you yet half apathetic. The grass is dry and you cannot eat it, if you pull it, it stretches and squelches in your hand like rubber snakes, breaking apart, no use. It’s yellow now, your gut aches.
The midday indolence has found you, the lethargic malady, your mind has reached a penultimate of churning lunacy, the danger is not real now, though. Only a defect, an obsolete ticker of primordial benefit.
You move back to the shade, and it begins to wane, back to the cooled rooms and the endless waters.
But will it always be so effortless?