Humid like afternoon on a tropical island, toasted and sealed to sweat in the darkness of an exiled sun. The rotten stairs bow like blades of grass under beads of damp, held together by surface tension as we scuttle down into the wrecked obscure. How many bug eyes rest on us from every angle and vertex, every cavity and void of blasted night? It’s better to slightly cross your eyes and blur the horror, the less visually detailed the tight angles we’re forced to brush up against remain, the better for our nerves this whole ugly descent will be. The ceiling squats low enough to caress the tips of my hair. Cream-painted ancient sawdust boards. Gnarled bricks look on with cauliflower faces like former boxing champs. Decades of dry red particle rain spill into sifting puddles of rust flour, kneaded by the thumbs of time into the clammy floor. Showers of brick dust caught suspended like miniature captured galaxies in a universe of spiderwebs. Wet in your lungs, dry in your mouth. Unease in your heart, decay in every direction. Your legs say you should leave. You should always listen to your legs.
Quit Vision 