She spoke to her AI speaker, “Play ocean sounds.” The speaker responded and complied.
She dreamt of a thin pixellated mist outside her window as the opening shot to her next film.
She placed her hand on her clavicle—fingertips finding soft pourchase in the hollow just above the bone. The contact sent a hot fist-sized ball coursing through her nerves to the center of her brain where she felt a concussive shock which sent barbs out through to every nerve ending in her body.
“I don’t feel normal. I feel as if something is off,” she said to a formless shadow in the mist. “Without any raw footage I have nothing to edit. Where’s my Bolex?” She rolled her glasses up on her head, keeping the hair off of her face.
The shadow spoke: “I think you should reconsider what you consider an appropriate gift. The only riveting thing about you are the rivets in your underhanded glances.”
Squalls of psychobilly guitar cut the air. She did a pogo-twist as if she were on the stage at Max’s Kansas City.
The sound transfigured into a spray of arterial blood on her bedroom ceiling. The walls, the floor the mirror behind the bedroom door were covered in spatters. A small pool of congealed blood in the corner next to her hamper. Drag marks on the floor.
She woke gasping for air. The ocean sounded like cyclonic roil. She woke up twisted in her sheets, on her side, with her head perched off the edge of the bed.
She called in sick. She had to sleep again to recover from the way she slept. She swore off indica edible gummies. Never again.
What I’m Reading:
“How many bodies have you carried into your meditation?”
— Laura Wetherington & Hannah Ensor / “Feel Fragments”