Summer’s heat lies on the land, stifling it. No breeze stirs the weedy growth that covers the fields, no birds make sound. My boots scuff lazy puffs of dust from the road, sluggish and reluctant. I am tired of this dead world, but I have come too far to abandon the trail.
A mark scratched faintly into a tree. Dry prints left by an impossible animal. A blade of grass, bent into a secret sigil. I am the only one who reads these signs, who detects the impossibility of this world, the deception of reality insinuated by unlikely molecules. Around me, trees bend in mockery, pointing towards a dilapidated farmhouse. They promise answers, but all I want is a resolution.
The air shimmers in the noon heat, solidifying like glue around a captured insect. This is how it keeps people away, twisting emotions into physics, perverting the pretence of order to disguise itself from me. I know its tricks: fake atom pressed to fake atom, molecule to mock molecule, a hollow world build from lies. It’s there if you know how to look for it: the jellied currents of the air, the slackness of fur, the stiffness of a smile. The whole world, an imperfect deception coalescing around me like old oil. Within it, tiny, sharp impurities – words spelt in rust, a hairless rat – point towards my final destination.
The farmhouse pulsates within the landscape like an exposed sore. Within it, something waits. I enter.
All I want is a resolution.