Sunday, June 04, 2006

I'm lying here in silence, staring at the ceiling. Only it's not really silent. The stillness is broken by squeaking of the ceiling fan, its unbalanced blades move the base in a small circle. That and the hum of this contraption, this box that, at the same time connects me and separates me from everyone; even myself.

I find a small stalactite of paint and I begin to wonder how it came to be. The vast planes of white semigloss interrupted by a tiny inverted mountain. Are there fault lines behind the surface of the ceiling? Perhaps my ceiling is a new "Pangaea." Then I remember how I ended up in my bed in the "silence" staring up, wishing I could see the clouds.

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