Enter through a door that click click’s shut like a stutter. Looking up is hard, for this space is too small to extend my neck fully. Blue ceiling runs its surface through the wisp of my hair above a pale circle of skin—white whirlpool surrounded by lines of black. When I look down vertigo pulls my stomach, extending me like the toffee boy that I am. Liar.

Description is lacking in the physical sense. Sight is blurred over by memory blurred over by sight. But from the grog emerges a strand of myself, and I grab onto it. It anchors me to this moment.

A writing desk sits to the right beneath the wall. There, chicken scratch script scrawled across an open page is the opposite of motion. Directly to the left hangs a pinboard. Facts of self are thrown rag-tag across its white, cork surface.

A cabinet is also to the left, built into a cavity in the wall. A huge, dark poster rises above it. A monster without focus, but if one looks closer, one can see shapes like people. Light comes from below and from where the captured stars radiate dimension in their photographic cage.

Look in the cabinet. This is where they keep the pictures. All organized like a flipbook, like the ones I might find on a family bookshelf—find a self in smiling memories, and long for the past over the present more than anything. What is the world worth without the past? Without those honey-warm days of youth? Running down the slat of warm bread that is time, like honey.

Look at the past in that cabinet. I only see you. Don’t you know that you are beautiful? It is always the same thing. For you it could be nothing else.

Enter through a door that click click’s shut like a twitch. Looking up is hard, for this space is too small to extend my neck fully. Blue ceiling runs its hand through the wisp of my hair above a pale circle of skin—growing white whirlpool streaked with lines of black. I look down and vertigo pulls my stomach. It pulls me down because there is no floor.

As I fall, an Icarus, wings scorched by the suns rising in your green eyes, I look around. I am falling through a white brick tower. Falling past framed portraits of all your lovers. No. Framed portraits of you painted with the brush of your lovers. I could rip those portraits apart, if I were not falling. I could rip them apart with my teeth. Each is a part of you. They are breadcrumbs you have left behind, and in my descent I have to search for the beginning.

From the grog emerges a strand of myself. I grab onto it. It pulls me up into this moment. The writing desk sits to the right beneath the wall. There, chicken scratch script scrawled across an open page is moving, slightly. Beckoning.

Blinking.

Directly to the left hangs a pinboard where you once kept something of mine. Facts of self are placed across its white, cork surface.

The cabinet is also to the left, built into a hole in the wall. The huge, dark poster rises above it. A monster without focus, but if one looks more closely one can see shapes like people. A light comes from below. Fire. It is fire. You are there—I see your face. You burn, but not because of the fire. It is because of the suns in your green eyes.

Enter through a door that click’s shut. Looking up is easier now, for I am more accustomed to craning my neck in the most uncomfortable ways. Blue ceiling runs its hand through a wisp of hair—a line of black. Vertigo pulls at my peripherals, but I will not look down.

The writing desk sits to the right beneath the wall. There, chicken scratch script is scrawled across an open page. The words pull me closer, and now I am caught in their web. They beg me, Write something. But from the grog emerges a strand of myself, and I grab onto it. It anchors me to this moment.

The cabinet is also to the left, built into a hole in the wall. The huge, dark poster rises above it. A monster without focus, but if one looks more closely one can see shapes like people. A light comes from below. Fire. The faces of the shapes are illuminated now—dancing around the fire in an ancient dance. One that I do not know the steps to.

Look in the cabinet. This is where they keep the pictures. What is a world without pictures? What is a world without the past? My past is forgotten. It is honey dripping off a slat of bread.

I only see you. You turn your green eyes and their suns towards me. Something is missing.

The door is already open. The blue ceiling scrapes my head and vertigo pulls me down because there is no floor. I claw at smiling faces as I fall.

A fire behind my eyes jolts me into this moment, and drags me upwards. The words on the writing desk dance like spiders. The words are meaningless. The whole desk turns to paper, and I want to shout at it: Why? But instead I look at the poster on the wall.

You burn without fire. You burn me without fire. I open the cabinet and an empty space exhales its being towards me. I catch it. I examine it with hollow eyes, already know what it means.

Don’t you know you are beautiful? It is always the same thing. For you it could be nothing else.

The purple ceiling screams, Liar Liar. I roll my eyes, and vertigo pulls me down because there is no floor. Liar Liar. The floor is made up of a dozen small, white candles. They burn me to a pile of ashes, as I flow around them, tapping my feet to the beat of that dance. I cannot stop. There is nothing to anchor me to this moment. Without end, I fall and claw at the portraits. They, in turn, claw at the empty space in my heart, where I use you to feed my anger. I am sorry that I cannot feel anything besides anger. Not a thing besides anger.

There is no sound when I hit the floor.

As I, dazed, regain my bearings, I stumble upon the roots of a tree, beneath my feet.

I curl around them with my toes in the half-light and feel their grooves, their bumps, their splinters.

This tree does not only reach its arms up the tower. It is part of the tower. Twisting its white self around in a tight helix, it is the tower. It shoots me up through its veins like sap, and leaves me in front of the cabinet.

Open the cabinet. You are more beautiful than ever. It is always the same thing. For you it could be nothing else.

Green eyes speckled with gold like the sun, turn towards me and a space beside them exhales. Something is missing. Your eyes know it, as do I. Something is missing.

The pictures are like the ones that I might find on a family bookshelf—find a self in smiling memories, and long for the past over the present more than anything. The world is not much without the past. Without those honey-warm days of youth. Running down the slat of warm bread that is time, like honey.


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