The object at the back of the fridge

Personalities split… shards of separate reality litter the screen with the slow motion ambiance of instant replay. A fantastic distortion of identity wakes the mind from its night of dreams and pokes it into wakefulness. I remember the field. It is now alone in the never ending quiet of the things that don’t really matter to me anymore. The things that Thurston says are far from the way he actually feels… he’s a poet, but not a very sincere one… so say his wife, his kids, his dog. He tries very hard to get at something useful in the back of the fridge but it sticks there, caked in some sort of caramelized brown gob. It won’t budge. Thurston doesn’t mind… he is enjoying the cool air on the hairs of his arm. He sits in the incandescence of the appliance… the only light for miles. He lifts the object slowly out of the gob and inspects it… he loves it. He seems to know that this is the object that will explode his consciousness. This is the object that will shatter him into the millions of little particles he really is. This is the object that will make each one of those particles sentient… alive… feeling.