The Close Call

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So there were two people on the hill. A man and a woman. The man looked about ready to grab the woman's arm in a gesture of desire. But the navy blue dress she wore spilled out on the floor like a bloody puddle, and it was the same colour that backgrounded the blue-eyed interrogation room. A dove crashed into the double-sided glass. But the hill was burnt, see. It was burnt to a crisp. It hid all entities in its worm-holes, evacuated. There were people flying acrobatic kites and drawing geometry in the sky. I figure there was already geometry in the sky, but you know, I didn't think about it 'til I seen them kites there. But settle down, I'm tryin' a tell you a story. And all the memories of the people on the hill, they all butted proverbial heads, and all kinds of interference patterns emerged into their shared web of experience. Waves cancel out waves and such.

The desiring man walked down the hill, and if I was there, I might have heard him say to her, and trust, this is what I imagine is consistent with his character, and not what he said, because I wasn't there, after all. He might have said "there's a tree I know in this park; I've seen it once about four years ago when I was here" water splashes out of statuary turtles, into fountains, grace "and this tree is hollow" wind picks up vinyl kite in acceleration followed by upswings in voice volume, flapping "It was eaten out by a fungus, which symbiotically helped it deal better with wind in storms."

Indeed, its leaves were green, but you could crawl right in it. He set out down the bike path snaking down the back of the hill. Twenty minutes later, we smoked a cigarette inside this self-same tree. Almost burned it right down.