Starfish explosions across the retina; a confusion of sounds, both unreal and real; blurred inputs and solid outputs meshed together.
Today’s lesson would be on the topography of internal spaces. You see, young Sambal was not in the same physical location as himself. Why, that would have been too easy. He needed more time to do.
Sambal looked in the mirror as the mission parameters kicked in: Herb had set up the contacts in a reverse pattern, so his synapses were generating more noise than signal.
A blur of speed amongst a taste of copper; axiomatic automata spin an orthogonal geometry on to the plane of a wing. Now was not the time to start bleeding. Now was not the time to start bleeding.
It was sickening to watch him slobber his way through a huge mound of glazed and sticky ribs, while trying to focus on the bowl of ramen in front of you.
Grey snow feels like wet salt: fluid. Walking through it feels unnatural, as if driving a sled or carving paths through dense jungle.
I don’t think the Faroese understand that they attract tourists; I don’t think they see themselves as worthy. They are wrong.