Seeping through the thick foliage are the effulgent arms of the moon which caused the branches and the leaves of the lofty trees hurl silhouettes a little distance from right below them. The air is practically placid—even so, dim crackling sounds from the leaves that were beginning to dry up and molder back to the ground where they descended from can be heard. Unlike its usual vigor and strength, the stream’s influx seems to be quite held back by an invisible hand that has set obstructions along the length it prances on. It was as if the same hand hit a pause button for everything.
—
Resin Duct
Mopping up my leaked grey matter, I recovered these:
A life-size pen with an irremovable cap
Tangled strings and matrices of verses
A paint brush seeking for its bristles
Jars of mixture of honey and muggy paint
Debris of fantasy bordering reality
A music box unperturbed in its five-note frenzy
Tomes frail from being shelved since time immemorial
Dismantled fascicles and heaps of neurons
A grandfather clock with 25-hour divisions
Lilliputian men pirouetting
Didn’t know my cranium is a pocket of peculiar things