Tornadoes are spinning and swinging doors open. The filing cabinets are emptied on the mushy, gray floor as I tip-toe through the mess, avoiding the ruin of memories. “Pick it up!” the alarm is screaming. “You fucking moron! It's too late! You weren't prepared! Now your dendrites are being ravaged and your papers are mixed!”
Everything is strewn about, overlapping and intersecting. Mnemonic necessities are all but lost.
This is balance. This is payback. This is my mind's revenge.
He says, “I've had enough of your bullshit! It ends today!”
To my hands and knees I go, my head dangling between quivering arms. Too weak to plead, I accept my fate and fall back. A slow motion, rolling runaway in real time.
Back in my brain, the hot air is cooling down, and the hail no longer smashes windows. The papers are floating back to their cabinets and the doors are closing.
Let no light in. Let no sound in. Sure as Hell, let no wind in.
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