A man was selling watches. The small store with dim lighting had rows after rows of them displayed, each box stacked on top of the other like the blocks of Ennis-Brown House. It felt eerily silent and static. Only upon examining all the watches did I realize that every one of them had stopped, each one displaying a different time. I had to pick one of these dead watches, dead like the old lady who made them, whether I wanted to or not.
* * * * *
After weeks of silent sleep, dreams finally returned. This first dream proved to be prophetic, not unlike the Asian superstition about shooting stars. A little death occurred that day. It was an ugly death for something so sweet and beautiful....
No comments:
Post a Comment