First Blimp

Removing colour from my thoughts, I formed a winter ball. I threw it. The dead were uncounted. There was a distinct lack of emotion. A decreasing range of accountability. My histories became few. Then one. I wanted it to be like life, but I had nine, eight, seven micro-seconds with which to work. I went to shape it, and sprang it on you. No criminal consciousness. No automatic compensation. No new aftermath. I can’t count, but I try.


I am at home behind me. My history is an international house of calling cards. I fail to connect because I am dead or dying. It is surprising. I once considered skiing, skating, sliding, until finally I sat exhausted with my hat on. Gloves on. Long scarf and boots on. The centre of my house, on balance, is sub-zero. I peel off my socks and warm them in the microwave. I place my feet on a pillow. I wonder if this is like life. Colossal subroutines amass and disseminate above me. Then I’m right back up again, multihued historian among the clouds.


is the author of All This Could Be Yours..