That bright, hazy mist inside the darkness of my kitchen. It wafted through the air like a spark of colored wind, but I barely saw its shape. Its particles boasted brilliance in the black air while I kept still nearby.
Then it discovered me.
It had to. It noticed my skin, a solid figure, and wiped itself from my sight.
I lost it—lost the shadow of that pale grey ghost which lingered, then disappeared.
The day was wet. Splattered throughout the surface of the pavement were swells of water. They were big, and I didn’t want to make the mistake of stepping into one.
But I was curious.
I wondered if I would drown: be engulfed then swallowed by the thick mass of dirty water. I wondered if I would be trapped in a lonely place. I wondered if I would slip into an unconscious obscurity.
I wondered if anything at all would happen.
There were no stars that night.
I fantasized about the people who stood outside gazing up at passing shadows. Shapes that were ever-present. Almost untouchable. A mass of moving figures that hung over the surface of empty heads—drowsy minds.