it’s 8:57 pm. the sun has just set.
that’s a lie, it’s 6:50.
clear skies tonight, you can see the last rays escape over the horizon. we’re in a clearing, there are stalks of wheat for miles.
it’s mostly cloudy as i write this from an apartment in a newly developed area of town.
there’s a farmhouse, in the distance, and some sort of magnetic force pulling us towards it. we walk, as if characters in a video game, there’s nothing else to do but move forward.
we walk towards this house like a march to death row. you are sickly pale. and i dont know why
i am sickly pale too, i think. i feel pale.
i feel like my hands are shaking
they’re not
but they feel like it
i do not recognize you.
i should, i know you. i know that i know you
i feel like we’re strangers.
but we’re not, we met in debate, i taught you physics, i talked you through a breakup.
it’s not that i don’t remember, but i don’t feel it.
we enter this space, and it feels like i should be scared
but im not
it’s virtually intact. scenic, almost.
you should be scared
i feel calm.
in philosophy there are 2 kinds of eternity
one is the timeless realm, one without succession, duration or sequence. simply put, there is no distinction between past present and future. the three concepts collapse into the eternal now. the second view, never ending time. time without beginning or end, stretching infinitely forwards and backwards at once.
we are in the first one. no past or present exists. it is all now. there has never been anything but now.
the walls know, i think.
we should be running. this place is like a mummified existence, preserved, eerily
its not eery
it’s an abandoned farmhouse that’s completely intact
but its not
why
i dont know
there’s a kitchen table, with plates left on it. like the owner has stepped out for a minute.
they’re not coming back. we know this.
we pretend to know this.
i can’t hear anything but your footsteps on the aged wood in the other room
but i can feel screaming
it’s not like i’m hallucinating, it’s not like the walls have memory
no, this screaming is not from the former inhabitants of this house
this screaming, where is it coming from
is it me
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