3 minutes 22 seconds| Antihistaminic dreaminess permeates the opening passage, and slowly evolves under the languorous influence of the flute: an instrument that frequently rescues my melodies from thorn bushes of polychords.
The time stamp records 5/19/10 as the start date.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 27| More developments at the tower:
His replacement was scheduled to arrive at five o’clock, and when Howard did not show, an emergency number taped to the broom closet door was called. The phone was heard ringing in the main office through the wall, but no one was on the premises to answer it.
The coffeepot was empty, but the observer was not inspired to brew additional fortification for his extended stay. Adhering to his few duties was not strenuous work, although he struggled to stay lucid as the sun failed, with one eye out for quarry and the other straying into the dark corner where a fax machine sat.
The Koreans were down to using safety lights, yet the binocular lenses became awls in those places where illumination was weakest. He was certain he detected baneful shapes in the back of 1136, away from the window, and when late sunlight rallied on the far side of the tower, an officious ray carved a ravine down a corridor in the brothel. It diffused in such a way as to descry the bottoms of two sets of feet at the leaden end of a mattress, belonging to the staged mannequins. However, their soles bobbed like boats tied to a dock. One pair of feet facing up straddled another facing down, and though this arrangement was consistent with the lewd masquerade, no automatronics were involved with these dummies.
The bed frame and posts lurched with a single decipherable contraction, but nothing in the act of copulation was real. It was a fallback in his mind, where an eye adapting to shadows sees shapes of insects because it can see nothing else. The plastic extremities were being employed like titillating lures, and in the way a crab might fasten stinging anemones to its claws as weapons.
A schemer’s lair receded deeper into the space, and its concealment succeeded until lateral movement, against scrolls of the French headboard, betrayed its half-human form. The entity again rubbed the hollow torsos of mannequins together like a cricket’s hind legs, and their pinkish lampshade abdomens gave off faint phosphorescence just as the sun in the corridor behind it passed out of the nook.
The signal was brief, like a combusting and then smoldering match head, but its siren inveigled and preyed upon a weakness. A parasitic thought was unleashed and empowered to make zombies of other witless bodies.
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