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Overloading the Machine

Not Clouds

1.

The house is flooding is the indication I get from the man outside running emergency loops in the intersection, where drunk van drivers, notably friend William, are sliding in the fresh snow. Nothing stops at a time like this. There is a moment in which things can be rescued, but it is the same moment in which things must be left behind, and that moment

2.

almost passed before I managed to undo my belt, and did pass before I noticed her standing in the corner, watching my boxers fill with cigarettes, shoes, a wallet and a raincoat. "You may not watch me

3.

undress," I said, unable, for the moment, to be politely embarrassed, under the circumstances.

She accepts and signs for a delivery, examines the receipt, and complains about the price. Always.

4.

The waves gobble up the stilts beneath the house. We will soon be inundated. I'm afraid. Moments before, I had seen them coming from the deck, but had thought they were clouds rolling, my own clouds even, from the smoke. That's how I get here, on the roof near a car, a truck and the running man.

5.

I ask friend William to slow down. He points to the man. He points to

6.

I decide to start the car myself, to get out of the honking truck's way, and to leave before things get worse. Things are about to get worse. The common complaint I hear is: "There are not enough cues." I left her behind, partially for that reason. Things were about to get worse.

The man interrupts his loops to flash me

7.

a lighted OPEN sign, indicating passable roads and a feeling of safety, endless and thick.

I loop the sign, a message

8.

I loop the message, a sign, over my head and

9.

over my head and head

10.

and head for

11.

the passage.

This page was last modified on 2011 December 20. "Not Clouds" by John Sullivan is Copyright ©2003 - 2011, and licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.