Opening the a post-psychological apocalypse.
When you get the feeling that something inanimate is looking back at you, or that the cold intent of the wind on your neck is chillier still than your expectation, you can be forgiven for that moment, where you would rather kill yourself, than live through the next minute.
If one were lucky, seconds only would pass. But as those seconds accumulate into a minute, and those minutes huddle into an hour, and those frightened hours mass into days, like refugees during the aftermath of destruction, when the real misery, the hard, enduring misery is born, one begins to wish that opportunistic moment of suicide had passed indulged.
Now the people lived together, yet separated, each trapped openly in neurosis, and privately, individually, in psychosis, as the shadows, even of the day, spewed into their ears, engulfed their hearts black, until that demonic and elusive dark substance leaked from their hearts, burned through the bottom of their lungs, stole the space within their nervous systems, surged slowly and heavily down to the feet, and remained, perfect footprints, on the concrete;
Whereupon great, glorious serpentine spores exhaled into the wind, a heavy breath of malevolent reproduction, creating a fine mist, that congealed in the ears, up the noses, through the teeth of closed mouths, and once again, dispersed itself ravenously, through the human body.
Blood became pale, lost its viscosity, and people fell to the floor, never arose, not at all, and soon became covered in sub-naturous species of deathly diseased weed.
This is metaphorical of course. There were no such plants, or spores or mist, nor congealing fatal matter to engulf a man or a woman.
But a deathly, gruesome thing was in the air. And quarantined during this time, I cannot tell you if it was tangible or not. It was mysterious, and left traces of traces that, once collected, built only abstraction found in the mind of a psychotic; no, abstraction found in a world of psychotics.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if some biological, chemical, or even political catalyst launched this; if some tainted, urgently needed and sloppily made, mass-produced vaccine was manufactured, or…
Or even if this is real.
But I am alone, and I do not know if I am yet contaminated so. I cannot know, for people are no longer alive where I am.
There is no geography here, and I cannot know if I am in day or night, or if such things exist anymore.
When I blank out shortly, I hope I awake with this still here, this piece of paper.
I have nothing else to know, nothing to remotely entertain the notion of a stable concept of what, or when, or why.
My lungs are tight, and there are flashes in front of my eyes.
If you find this, take me with you, help me recover.