You’ll only ever see them in photographs. In a way, they
only really exist after the fact.
Eyes. See the eyes, and a phantom sensation of long
fingernails flows across the strings of your abdominal muscles. Fritzing thrum fractures
next, across the ribs. Then the face. The face.
The face that regards without looking. The cold, sharp shock
of recognition drilling up your spine is not what you think it is. What of the
dry flavor of panic on your tongue? The screaming in your brainstem? It’s not
the transparent men taking residence in your memories. That’s certain.
No worries.
Not the day-dreamy, artistic type, I hope? They like to come
out and swim in distraction. It’s the worst just before sleep. Eyelids cannot
hide them, the transparent men.
So I heard.
Good thing there’s no worries.
So I hear.
