Road: Short Story

The Sperg Box

Thoughts. Thoughts. Thinking, always thinking. What man worth his weight doesn’t know what it means to be strangled under a pillow fluffed by errant thoughts. What man doesn’t know what it means to lie dormant like the stone, being eroded by the tides of oceanic pressure in the form of stray thoughts. Oh, it begins the same way. A passing fancy. Innocuous enough. Maybe you read a street sign with a name you’ve never heard. Somehow you’re back down Alice’s Rabbithole wondering why the world is so dark, and intimidatingly damp.

So you do what the sane man does. You chase your drugs. Your drug isn’t something quaint and stupid, like weed or even something harder. That’s a mongrel’s respite and everybody knows it. You don’t drink, you’re a Yankee goddammit, imperious and cold. You’re told. No. Your drug is music. What else could it be?

What else could take…

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