in through the mist the portal or a door white washed but acrylic shine behind or before or beside darkness ad infinitum. Step-talking the brainy somnambulist with his hand around the saffron knob worn-out infused with chemical menace huffing paint behind the schoolyard emerged beyond it but cannot remember opening it but must have now or later or once.
The mist says no or go or no-go quoting Bell and Kochen and Specker and lingered whole against the slit of the bottom and the side drained into reality or whatever darkness is; reality or unreality or the undiscovered space between. Or nothing. The walker in the dream did not care. The door shut behind him. What is remembered is regretted what is forgotten is…
Inside and around the voidless room the absence of absence. A tiled floor and blue light on and off from flickering fluorescent purgatory. Heaven and Hell; light and darkness. The light itself eerie and asleep mortis and wailing mostly tranquil but real tranquil from trans – over plus a root quies – rest. Exceeding rest. Indulged. Pacified. The walker before a mirror and a sink and the word. A bathroom. If only absent a bath and not much of a room. Just a space. A sink and a door and the light above. The mirror on the wall long but elongated from a smaller shape. Fogged by steam in the cold room.
The hand of the walker swiped across the mirror and shortly after this his mind-clock ten seconds read did the reflection pursue him as if delayed by sleeplessness and revealed itself in the glass. The reflected’s eyes choked on the sight of the reflection.
The skin was Alice blue. The hair black-hole black. The eyes were slits. The irises were jonquil to be specific. Formulaic like chemistry. R two four four. G two zero two. B two two. Percentages and color space the space of colors. An amoebic shape of chromatically perfect alignment to the low rhythm of a point. A straight line. A stagnant body of shades like a photographed sun.
But beneath the corpse upright the walker could recognize his self. The dream dreaming. Every wave of his hand and turn of his head mimicked later then done delayed. A future not a present. Not a gift a promise.
The walker yielded to a small smile. I look very fine like this.
The reflection yielded to a small smile.
On the radio in the pipes Dylan crooning From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn. With warm fingers on the stone. Plays wasted words, proves to warn. With cold fingers against the bone. Black veins riding up his scorn. That he not busy being born is busy dying.
So very fine. So very busy.
Above in the still beating heart of an old light on and off and on and off in and out of blackness there came a spider thing which tried to dress like a woman with womanly hair but forgot about its legs, its spinnerets that came around the waist of the reflection. The legs like chipped obsidian flaking dark snow.
The walker put his hands on the sink and leaned in toward the smell of the poison from the arachnid-maiden’s lip-fangs. The air got tight on metallic and the walker could taste breathing behind him.
On the face of the reflection came the grin. A long shadowy grin that was wider than his mouth. The walker waited then the walker grinned. There was a sound around them in their fingertips and in their throats. A soundless sound. The sound of silence. The sound astronauts hear when small pebbles crack their helmets and all the nothing pours into them. Fills them. Combust them. Hum. Huuum. Blood drains from the neck of the reflection. Huuuuum. It rides down the blue skin like a current. Pooling around his feet. Huuuuuuuuuuum.
The walker heard the blood coming up his leg and over his hands and up to his neck. Into his mouth and through the pores of his skin which opened for the blood. Spinnerets closed around his waist. Jagged fingers which were just skin stretched over spiky bones curled around his shoulders. The walker waited to wake up closing his eyes.
He hears a moan not there before and realizes its from the door. Slowly creaking. Then, startled from the fall, opens his soul and