But too late. I am only food for flies now. Those tiny black truculent, beleaguering ones that hover about relentlessly as I try to reason and link the arguements together, over and over in my mind, again and again. “A choo-choo train, a choo-choo train”, my cousin Richie would whisper in concatenations ever so softly beneath his breath. How strange, I thought. It was barely perceptible and as though when he began to concentrate on the toy trains, it somehow, his mind, set up a terrible field all around him pulling the ananthema of the flies toward him. And the harder he concentrated, the stronger the field became.
Hell is people! I should live in seclusion in the middle of nowhere and with only my few possessions. And it should be in the desert or the plains or the mountains where the sounds of the cicadas and the coyotes and the wolves are the only true sounds, those which can be felt and heard deep within the soul.
He was a valiant serpent too wise for the layers of his skins and yearned to shed the curse of them, scraping and twisting his writhing body against the grates of the tracks, as he struggled to go forward and tear the skins away from him.