Such withered sockets

All the known oceans lifted out of their beds and came down upon the world like a gentle rain, slowly, for days and days. The sun shone and hid, the moon rubbed its eyes, and still the ocean rain came. For some it was pleasant, a relief from the summer heat. For others, a mix up of cold northern air caused an infliction of flurries that made commute times a headache, more an annoyance than a threat. Skateboarders took to the now dry bowls where the waters had been once. And tourism offices quickly sprung up everywhere to showcase the wonders of the abandoned ocean floor. The world was reawakened by the endless space. And the colors. Nobody had ever seen such colors! Flowers and food overtook everything — impossibly, almost offensively verdant. Everything got fat and everyone.

But me, I sat in my room as I’ve always sat in my room, watching the rain on the window transform itself into a complex network that I could only trace into incomprehensible knots. My eyes, they live in such withered sockets. And I thought of you, probably now in a bathing suit, out in the world, exploring it, unafraid of what might come next, and I thought how I still meant it when I said I wanted to eat the thoughts straight from your skull.

But that was before.

And that was before.

And that was before.