The Caravan
Babbling to a phantom in the looking glass about various things that cross the path of my caravan.
Dust… golden beams… a face… twisted clock hands… dust…
The dust had already settled down and got cosy while I was blacked out. The floorboards were more or less melded into my back and I couldn’t quite tell if it was my muscles or the floor itself which was aching. Gazing down without lifting my head I brushed the dust off my skirt and coughed a little as even more dust fell out of the pleats. Endless dust…
If I put my mind to it could I swallow dust at a faster rate than the dust was swallowing me up? No, you can’t outpace the dust. It washes over everything like a tsunami. But I’m a fish. I can survive underwater. I’m a strange creature, with sharp teeth on my knees and fingertips that glow in the dark. Ever unseen by man, I’ve lived for eons under the layers of dust in the dust-sea.
Time to get up.