The mannequins are here again today. I can feel them throbbing in my ears. They’re standing around in the kitchen, impassive as stone. But underneath they’re laughing. I’m not getting out of bed for them, not this time.
My watch says it’s twelve o’clock. I don’t know if it’s midday or midnight. The sun and the moon look the same to me.
Everything’s the same really, if you think about it. A table, a horse, a joke, pity. All the same.
I can hear the mannequins whispering now. Their voices are like embers.
I’m having a bad, bad time. Every time I shut my eyes I see myself as a foetus, glowing in the womb. I’m incomplete: my hands are drippy and my song is lost at sea. Even my valves and pistons don’t work properly.
The obvious solution is not to close my eyes. But I have to blink now and then. I’m sure you’ll appreciate my predicament.
The mannequins have become suspiciously quiet.
This is a small part of a work in progress.