||[Oct. 24th, 2007|04:02 pm]
The Floating Hospital
He did the stupidest thing possible: he admired the sea for a full minute before logic shot feeling through, and said: your brain isn't working, then, that's not meant to be there. The ear and hair on the left side of his head was flat from the surface of his desk. He had a longish thumbnail that cut his cheek as he jerked his hand down to steady himself against the windowsill.|
He stood, a sleepy silhouette, against the orange square of new light that had woken him. He stood very still. Then, methodical, calm, he put his cane behind him, and with a neat half-step swivelled, closed his eyes, and as he came back around again opened them.
Three possibilities: death, madness, a deep trip, or an entirely new and important addition to what he knew and was sure of in life; he hoped for the fourth. The fourth was something that made life worth living.
He looked at the sea for another thirty seconds, then calmly turned and made his way out of the office. Every second step he took stock of reality and his own mind apart from the sea, and found them concrete and unchanged. His mouth was a straight line; his eyes were bright.