Damp heat seeped through my pores. Breathing was difficult: the air was viscous, heavy: the basis of my claustrophobia. Fractal light swam through the thick canopy dozens of meters above. There were sounds from all sides: jungle life, I reasoned. I came to a clearing and saw a man — by his looks, a native. He stared at me with a mixture of curiosity, fear and signs of temporary insanity. I had walked about fifty meters and was nearly done-in. He pointed at me and said, “Hkzzt-t-t kumar, bonk!,” looked up, toward the sky, said, “fioir kapuet regdt,” twirled his hand above his head and spat out: “Spthhht!”
It was definitely time to get outside, into fresh air…
.
…The white homunculus replaced the orange hand and I ebbed across the street amid a heard of humanity.
A VW microbus — with a bumper sticker declaring that the driver breaks for hallucinations — limped through the intersection (to my left) and bounced off the far curb. This educed a chorus of “ahs” from the herd (like in Pink Floyd’s Run, on Dark Side of the Moon).
.
I relaxed somewhat.
While everyone else was focused on the van’s progress, I surreptitiously sniffed my left underarm (the worst of a bad pair) and scratched cheek on shoulder as a cover. Not bad, I decided — it was fairly blustery out anyway. Perhaps I was followed by something odious, but nobody could connect the two of us, surely…
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db johnston
almost falling 