face is split in two by the thunderbolt that cracks the silver moon of
the shaving mirror. A black hair makes a question mark on
the porcelain as two space ships land on the planet inside
my head. The surface of the planet is like an egg carton. I
know these ships. I can even tell you the year that they are landing in. It’s a
year that once seemed part of a far off unimaginable future that is now very
much part of the far off distant past: so far back in
time now as it was once so far off in the future.
had felt like big black clouds had been passing by
although there was no discernible change in the light.