Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

and a leather vest. Affixed to the fine tooled leather was a silver brooch
embossed with the sign of Cancer, the crab.
With a moan he rolled onto his back, and then leaned back on his
elbow. Surrounded by twisting brambles, each clothed in thorns like
knives, there was an immense yawning hole in the ground ahead of him.
Great gusts of damp air issued from it in a constant rhythm, and he could
hear that thrumming bass sound, deep in the earth.
He walked to the edge cautiously and saw to his relief that a massive
stair spun around into its depths, clinging to the wall. The ledge was narrow,
and there was no railing, but it still looked an easier route than
jumping. He began the long descent.
Again, I’m bathed in fluorescent, humming in my bones. Where am I?
This is the part where I look around, and going outside, forget who I am.
Rows of herbs in labeled bottles above an old stove with gas burners,
yellow walls… I think they’re yellow. The closer I look the more unsure
I am what color they are. The more I pry into this sensation, the more the
room pulses around me, fading to black and then returning. Did I take
acid? Am I a forgotten trip?
Two eyes are regarding me now, bringing me out of a final dip into
darkness. She is wearing a dress, again I cannot discern its color. Is it
blue? Green? She gestures with her hands while she is talking—she has
been speaking to me, her voice low and plain—for some reason those
thin hands strike as two doves, with their fingers curled outwards like
fragile feathers. Her lips are thin and yet full—I am watching them
move, so slowly. So slowly and silently. Her hair is a deep red, of that
I’m sure.
The fingers move sinuous now, like snakes. I can feel my weight
compressing in the padded chair beneath me, the sensation of my
breathing, and now I am really here. Alright, what is she saying, now that
I am here, now that I can pay attention—
“…If there were only that day, I wonder if I would love it as I love
you now. If I would collect moments in my mind, gather them in my
arms, and hold them up to the light to illuminate another angle. Like the
angles of your face, my love. How strange to think of every second like I
think of the dilation and contraction of your pupils as you look at me,
and a moment later look away. Would the day stretch so we could all live
the same amount of the time and our lives shrink so that it was only a
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