Fir

A tiny little speck.  It moved up, following another speck just like it.  They and the others just like them were moving at a speed somewhat comprehensible, higher and higher.  But it wasn’t the kind of movement like walking or swimming to the surface of a swimming pool.

The sun, three feet above your head, beating beating down.  You can’t feel your hair but it burns burns and it drives you insane knowing how it’s aflame but really not knowing after all, then wondering if that really is the sun.

Shadows.  The cool blanket of darkness.  The heat visibly radiating from my knees, creating waves and circles under the sheet.

The trillions of specks are fatigued.  They recess into nothing, into reality like needles or a bug’s defense mechanism, and I recess into the unconscious space of my unconscious.

Restless here, resting there.  Every thing subsides.