It begins as burning scrape: plectrums plucking rusty nerve endings. Pulses trace my gait, recalling cadence, mimicking steps when I pause to examine the ground. If I ignore the rusty strings long enough to find something to put in my mouth—and down my throat—the sensations retreat, backgrounded to spiny fragments of discordant speculative music. I tune this music out—I try—imagining other things until I can walk no further and the fist between my lungs clenches as temple walls converge, pushing brain, pressurizing retina. Vision doubles and triples; I see in wheeling kaleidoscope, colors between colors, shades of red, blue, yellow—and now a purple orb dancing behind my lids, like a glance at the sun. If I find food in time, I’m fine—if not, my body responds, steadily eating itself.
Rafi