Twilight fugue Matthew Mullins
Night has fallen, slugs have risen in the damp cave where I reside and subsist on caterpillars and little black rocks, away from the ghosts of electrical sockets and the tyranny of knowing the time all the time. What time is it? Wednesday. An itch inflames my hand. Nettles? Or perhaps the wiry legs of the harvestman as he tramps across fissures of sundry material and tries to locate I have no idea what. The brain is accustomed to the sounds of heavy rain but wind, wind is the language of the void outside of this mouth, and its tone is discernible but never the contents of its tongue.
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