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A fuzzy snapshot of an image and a few lines – just enough to spark something. Muse. Meditation. A string of thoughts now. A figure on your street staring up to your window. A twisting loop of suburban streets unfolding out in geometric fractal patterns. Research chemicals and gateways. What lives between the seams? Can dreams be eaten?
This week we offer A Long Walk Home. If it strikes you and leads to something, run free. Tell me about it. Or don’t. Keep it sacred. Keep it safe.
“There’s a boy out there. He’s just standing in the street.”
“What? Just come back to bed.”
“Come look at this.”
“I’m already looking at something…”
Her eyes didn’t leave the window.
“I’m looking at my wife peeping out the blinds like a weirdo at three in the morning.”
She didn’t even give the classic haha-real-funny face back. Not even the squint.
Instead, she whispered, “He’s looking at me.”
She repeated it, but more hushed. A slight pause and she said it again. Again. Faster.
He’s looking at me.
And she began to scream.