Open:
The images are pouring through her as she spins faster like motion-capture city streets and so loud, so fiercely bright, that it’s impossible to grasp a single aspect. There’s too much to remember and grasping at the nettles of imagery only leads to bright flowers of blood on her palms, a sharp sting and an empty hand. It’s thundering through and around her and anything for a moment of stillness, a moment to pause and hide and wail, keening into the darkness, a moment to comprehend. A thousand faces are shouting, whispering, talking, glaring, all of them saying their different truths so the words mangle together into a meaningless, scalding heat and pressure. It all flickers by much too fast to hold on and she is dwarfed by everything within and without her. It’s terrible, horrible, hang on by the hair of your own neck as you breathlessly await the future chaos, rubber-necking at the train-wreck produced by an overstimulated mind.
Closed:
As soon as it came, it ends. A whimper in the dark and there’s nothing for miles or further but the ticking of her mind as she tries to remember anything more than a blur of shouting and orange, lights flashing, velocity, flying/falling. There is a page, with words. They might be important words but it feels like reading them through an atmosphere as almost dreams haunt her day, trespassing on the borders of her consciousness with the aura of smell, motion, a face she’s seen before but only in restless sleep. There is coffee and sustenance, flavours that seem one-dimensional.
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