[ strange inklings ]

When I woke up this morning, I found a seashell by the bed- one of those smooth, tiny heart-shaped shells which you can enclose in the palm of your hand like a magic pebble or amulet and which smells of salty air and waves and sand...(At least that's what I imagine that they do-)

I did just that- hid it in my hand like a tiny fragile bird, felt the slick surface caressing my skin like precious porcelain; I opened my hands again and put it to my lips- it felt cold, distant, with no prescence nor a taste. Un-alive.

For no apparent reason, I looked around to see if I was alone, a strange sensation crept up on me, as if I was being watched; a tickling in my neck, a whisper or a floorboard creaking...But there was noone there, noone else but me.

By the window I could see the messy table, burnt-out candles like melted plasticine. The ashtray,- Hiroshima. No use to clean up, it'd only get back to where it was by the whiff of a Rizla paper. That's what friends are for.
On the back of a torn-out newspaper I found a short note left for me, familiar wobbly letters scribbled in blue-ink pen like curly daddy longlegs' stains:

"You can move, you can groove you can mind melt-
Perpetual bloom
You can sing on the curves of all minds perfect rings
Come around come around, I hear what you say come around
The temple of my mind, so clear so clear
Resounding no fear-"