Blades of iron grass. Crimson rust. I look at my hands. My boots. I am a human being. Trudge further into the Zone. Speak only Truth here. Otherwise, silence. I am a writer. Every writer must navigate the Zone. Notebook. Ink. A rucksack of metal screws. Are you afraid of existence? The limit. The infinite. There is more here than any human being can possibly imagine. I rummage through a warehouse. The ruins of a factory. Temporal objects are everywhere. An adjustable wrench. A screwdriver. Sheetmetal. An acetylene torch. Railroad tracks end at a stagnant pool of water. I say things in my head. And I cannot hear them. And I can hear them. Atomic facts. Thinkable facts. Everywhere the echo. The breeze picks up. In my left eyeball I see floaters. Black spiderwebs. Time fits together like steel pipes. Time=pressure. I feel a presence here. A negative space. Shadow of a shadow of a shadow. Yes. We are getting somewhere. Inching towards a future. I play the language-game. I am a jellyfish in the sea. I am a dragonfly. A nervous system. Stimuli. I shoulder my rucksack. I throw a metal screw. Trudge further.
Am I capable of a significant utterance? Can I speak?
R.G. Vasicek is a lo-fi novelist in NYC. Books include The Defectors, Cyborg, Machine, & the anti-novella Jörgensen and the Machine. His microflick MACHINE premiered at the XIII Prague Microfestival 2021. Czech out www.rgvasicek.com for more info.