Two Ambien and Some Huxley
i was a house with a thousand rooms.
in each room a thousand small ornaments
suspended invisibly, spinning and glittering
like hypnotists' baubles. when examined closely,
each ornament was not an ornament at all, but a
delicate snow globe, made with living glass, crafted
with clocklike accuracy, holding an impossibly detailed
scene of a memory, blanketed in diamondy sugary dust.
the memory if shook would sparkle and refract the
light, reflecting the radiance of ten thousand other
memories. i spent an entire life traveling the house
examining the sparkling, never once thinking but
how is this possible? what lights the room?
how can i see any of this at all?