The tubular bells ring out and the flashing light on the desk filters its blue. The melodic high pitch and tremolo of strings blended with the equally soft legato to some degree, lessen the pain. Although this is ambiguous. The thought process only becomes more of a process and less of a thought, yet still, the thought is in some way still there. Unavoidable, it sticks to the salt of the wound and presses gently against the ever numbing tissue.
No. Not warm tears. Just cold face, cold enough to evoke the sense of warmth that those pearly drops seem to give off. And then the quick succession of migraine. The common symptom of cold, or tumour. Because my life and yours will eventually be distinguished by such atmospheric things.
For now though we watch the moving figures dance and gallop across the panes of the bed and the edge of the desk. They're there, look, they're definitely there. Is it a snake or a worm? My eyes say neither, my eyes say this creature is not from around these parts, not even these waters.
Now the smoke of the nebula, now we're talking. Heads roll with that succinct disappointment and disbelief at your story.
Eugene believes you though, even Bin believes you. Bin suffered the torment of being as misunderstood as yourself. He was a her and her was a him. She had long hair which showed high levels of grease and thinness. Maybe one day I'll see them again, but not just a glance, a proper conversation. I can remember telling her that I'd grown out of talking to her, and that I had to move on but she'd never believe me. Just get frustrated and come back for more. Eventually she went away though, oh the power of forgetfulness and bottles. But nothing is ever really forgotten in the universe though, not really.
So she came back. Came back to see just how much I'd changed. The tongue and cheek and long hair was evidently yesterdays news; it was as if she was looking into a different girls eyes. Warm tears filled her too, but her coldness represents a different one. One which is the next step waiting in the wings for mine. Death. The cold is death. But maybe that translates as warmth for them, I hope so. Catching a cold would be the last thing we want in the dirt.
No matter though, I will join the worms in the nebula once my time comes. If anyone breaks the habit of a life time and remembers me and more importantly, my final request, I will be scattered amongst the stars, awaiting the boarding to a flight to parallel universes and dwarf stars.
Goodnight, travel well, take a wet flannel for those tears, something to counter act the warmth.
Because you never know when the big BAD WOLF is going to be at the door.
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