Then news arrived

its sheer implausibility chased me across the forest like some hateful spirit. without a sense of 'where to' till my legs gave way. wilderness beyond which nothing. anesthetized by the countless spears of the tiny grass soldiers under my person, i fell. quiet. i prayed desperately for loss of sensation. i am made to subside. Nothing to do, then, but. bide. my. time. closed eyelids did nothing to help. dragging me--by the hair-- back to that nauseating

the chaos within.

i see the big silver sun, is n't. like drops. collected in leaves, like orbs of wet dew, merely warmed by the sun; and not sun herself. she is a million glimmering mirrors instead. web of leaflets overhead. grateful. deeper into the grass, begging for numbness. an insignificant lapse of time. my skull was tightening. the insides of my face an oven. blink. 

The image persists long after. The sun was a million glimmering mirrors instead. Komorebi, the  hardly-accurately-translatable Japanese phrase comes to mind even as the very glimmering orbs of dew swell then well in my eyes. When I let my eyelids fall some break ranks and charge toward the countless spears of the tiny grass soldiers under my person. Pain that tastes like salt is the worst one of them all.