Detlef the tax auditor startled awake, inhaling all the air from the room as he sat up from a dead sleep, He was soaking and soiled from a night he had trouble recollecting.
He'd knocked on the artist's door to assess, his knuckles waking the termites; his rapping crushed their home and splintered their chance at winter survival (it was a damp March). Reacting before acting, pulling from the eye-level sink-hole, he wiped miniscule white lives against his dark, official trouser lap. The spores of mold caught him dead. Mildly asphyxiated, he dropped to his knees, his smooth black-leather brief-case slapping the landing as he searched for his inhaler; it may as well have been pepper-spray for all the good it did.
"You've arrived." the door said. He flushed in embarassment as he got off of the ground. The artist was expecting him though his arrival was unannounced. He breathed deep and steadily, his chest choking in an effort to speak.
Rather than address Detlef, her voice (it was female, wasn't it?) directed him to a dim room that had clearly been layered in years of dampness. He noticed squeaks, snags, snarles, but saw nothing save shadow and a light that would have formed a Jacob's Ladder anywhere other than there.
The dimness revealed colors that would remain mysterious through the rods and cones of human optics. Shapes fell into shadow or cloth, and the concrete identification of any object was an inigma that could pull the mind's soul from embodiment.
Before him was a table, a plank suspended, a fallen wall... he was meant to work on it, this make-shift auditing desk. Being abandoned there, he decided he should go straight to his work. He opened his briefcase and
>>> Write more later
No comments:
Post a Comment