Still

Reclining back in the felt-like enveloping cushion of a recliner, listening to shoegaze band Rumskib. Seeing things from my head, not with my eyes, but in the nook behind and below my forehead. This is a comfy feeling, I am cozy and seeing not with my exposed soul so that I might be vulnerable. I am not in my body, just sitting comfortably in this safe chair. The posters with their weak waxy reflections are familiar enough, the company is familiar enough, it is all fine. But I am small. The broad-leaved lumbering trees stretch out of my pupils’ shot, even when seen through the high windows of my current second floor station. Ladders quake to imagine a climber’s feet testing these heights. Such a thought shakes me from the safe chair.

This is the warm crunch of Atheist’s Piece of Time. Now, sitting feels more like playing video games, that warm graphic feast with a brother defying a summer day – indulgence. That’s not exactly what it is. The night brought 7 hours of sleep and a stormy sky, so this is a more logical sitting than ignoring a hot sun. And it’s Atheist, not Champions of Norrath. Man, do I want to pick up the old Jackson and get playing. The blowing fan air, marginally cool, is waking me up. Preparation, a proto-breakfast osmosis. I am ready to taste the good tastes of the day, in the chair where I squish musical mozzarella stick morsels between molars, masticating gourmet Atheist. I will surely remain warm.

Miles by miles - a stupendously sized skull in the middle of space. First a transparent gamma skin, then a dully-glittering translucent feldspar star bed, then slowly revealing the bone white of a muted star. Expressionless as its setting, it stares, boring into the next universe. Empty eyes see less than this cosmic colossus: no eyes. For one month in its god-seat, it roots. Then, with expressionless finality, it is fleshed into emptiness.