Kadon Peterson

2070

It was all so brain deadening. The jelly in my eyes had become sweet and sticky from the light of LEDs. I no longer counted time by the second, but by the heartbeats of the sphere. The lab remained dark so we could at least imagine something new were there. Every documentary and film about Elvis Presley had been digested. We spoke to his image I plastered upon the door, which read “Nine and nine make fourteen, four and four make nine, the clock is strikin’ thirteen, I think I lost my mind.” In our isolation and boredom, detail was our only source of novelty. Fennec had 37 seam-like scars running across her. I found Max’s signature mark under her left eyelid. She had not been aware of either factoid until my every sense was imbued with her dissection.