Issues in Suspension

“We’re all necessarily separate from each other,” the teacher said. Class was just beginning. Outside: Wilson was coming closer, still distinctly late, the unknown, on the way to existence, presence. I saw him through a window of vulnerability past the trash barrel that blocks the view of those critics on the other side of the room.

Lately, I thought, Wilson had gone off the deep end, into cheap religion, spurious answers to irrelevant questions. Ghosts, mediumship, all that stuff that he had earlier pointed out as trivial.

“I’m talking to you,” the teacher said to me.

“Fuck you,” I muttered, “I’m busy, I have to work this out first.”

I got lost in the hours somehow, something that the Law prohibits. Later when I woke up again, remembering to remember myself in pursuit of a sterile Ouspenskian exercise, adjusted to suit my own ends, my art, the class was different, some science mumbo-jumbo from the mouths of babes, undergrad filling in for prof.

“Paradigm shift,” I heard him say before I fell asleep, the drugs working. “Neutron planet, so dense as to be incomprehensible. Models, cheap plastic imitations.”

“Yeah, right,” said someone next to me. “She has the biggest pair in the room by a long shot.”

“Decay,” the voice told me. “It’s not worth the effort given the contrasts in the environment between tension and release.”

Finis . . .

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