A street light shines on a bench, and a cloaked boy is wondering why a reflection in his eye makes him feel as though he should find the centre of something. A clouded puddle. A star explodes and blurrs its motion outwards, recollecting something from oblivion.
A convicted killer in her cell is slicing her wrists and writhing on the cold floor to the rhythm she'd rocked her daughter in after giving birth. Did Hawking predict that? The moon is rising somewhere, a beach darkens. An atom must be another universe, so small, so small.
She has become grey matter.
She's become useless awareness.
She's the essense of something and she doesn't know what.
The silver lining of her hair haunts me like a ghost as I crumble into catatonia, across these barren brain cells whispering strange things to me, as if she wants me to quiver from remembering the electricity of her touch.