Wednesday, December 29, 2010

363. Failure of the imagination

His knuckles were white as he gripped the railing. The reed-encrusted pond floated out in front of him, and the chatter of happy picnickers resounded behind him. All as in a vacuum. It was not like he was in pain. Not physical pain. And Norm had never been one for attributing any credence whatsoever to pain of the soul. So he was left in a quandary as to what was engulfing him.

He swayed, which is why he grasped the rail. There was an echo effect. Like both his eyes and his ears were doing a backflip. Telling him to stop. Stop right now. Take it in. Now. Smell the roses.

Like hell. What a load of balderdash. Roses are over-rated plants with thorns. The cut-type in the corner shop wilt after being in a vase for less than a day. And as for perfume. None. Been bred out of them.

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