A man sits down at a desk.
He is going to write a letter. He does not know yet to whom he is writing.
Outside, the sun is white and low in the sky. It is autumn, and it is uncharacteristically warm. It is the type of day that neighbours comment upon when they see you next.
We haven't had heat like that in years, he can hear them say.
Light leaks into the house through the thin curtains and swallows the man whole as he prepares to write. He basks in its warmth, gives into its glow, and picks up a pencil.
Dear Sir, he begins. The pencil falters, then:
Dear Sir,
I would like to humbly request your assistance.
You see, I am very old and my eyes are dim. Yet, the light here seems to have a message for me.
The man stops again and seems to consider something. The glass on his table is empty and so too is its taller partner, the carafe. He is parched. He will have to refresh himself later. Now, there is no time. If he leaves the table, his letter will go unsent.
Dear Sir,
I would like to humbly request your assistance.
You see, I am very old and my eyes are dim. Yet, the light here seems to have a message for me.
My house is old, and it has few windows. Despite this, every summer, the mosquitoes are able to enter and buzz about the room, like they are taunting my vain efforts to keep them away. The light has managed to do the same. It has entered through every crack and I cannot seem to get it out. It buzzes around and fills me with a warmth which I cannot put into words.
Maybe, Sir, you will be able to translate for me.
The man wets his lips. Outside, the light is incessant. It bathes the concrete steps ascending to his door. It bleaches the detail from the rudbeckia which sway outside back and forth, back and forth. The grass seems to tremble.
Dear Sir,
I would like to humbly request your assistance.
You see, I am very old and my eyes are dim. Yet, the light here seems to have a message for me.
My house is old, and it has few windows. Despite this, every summer, the mosquitoes are able to enter and buzz about the room, like they are taunting my vain efforts to keep them away. The light has managed to do the same. It has entered through every crack and I cannot seem to get it out. It buzzes around and fills me with a warmth which I cannot put into words.
Maybe, Sir, you will be able to translate for me. As I have said before, my eyes are dim. They do not work as they used to. Yet, I would be a fool if I did not notice the patterns.
The light dances for me. It weaves in and out of the few scant objects I own, making them ring and sparkle like cut diamonds. It tells me stories in the shadows it creates. I see women living and dying. I see men rise and fall. I see the movements of the very gears of the earth, micrometer by micrometer over millenia. But it is a house of cards: an impressive image, a fleeting moment. I cannot decipher these visions.
For many hours I have considered what these messages might mean. In my house, upon this hill, I have watched and waited. Until yesterday, I felt like a dormant seed buried in the ground. I lay in wait, holding my breath until the right chance to act. Until yesterday, I had no thought of what to do next, other than to sit and to think. Now I know I must write.
Again, the pencil pauses. The hand which holds it trembles. The light seems to falter, then surge.
Dear Sir,
It would like to humbly request your assistance.
You see, it is very old and its light is dim. Yet, it has a message for you. Yesterday, it entered the body as it stood outside. It flooded it. It possessed it. It is trying to tell you something.
The house is old, and it has few windows. Every summer, the mosquitoes enter and buzz about the room. They are taunting him. The light has done the same. It has entered through every crack and the body cannot get it out. It buzzes and warms in a way which is unintelligable to its host.
The light dances. It weaves in and out of the objects in the room, making them ring and sparkle like cut diamonds. It tells stories in the shadows. Women live and die. Men rise and fall. The very gears of the earth move, micrometer by micrometer over millenia. It is just so. It is trying to speak. The flesh cannot decipher these visions.
For many hours, the body waited and thought. In the house, upon the hill, it watched and waited. Until yesterday, it was a dormant seed buried in the ground. It lay in wait, holding its breath until the right chance to act. Until yesterday, it had no thought of what to do next, other than to sit and to think. Now it has understood. It has a message to convey.
It is difficult to understand what must come next (I find it difficult to understand what must come next). There is not much time to act (There is not much time to act). Tell your loved ones you must go (I will tell my loved ones I must go). It must not be feared (I am not scared).
A man sits down at a desk.
Light leaks to his house and swallows the man whole as he writes. He basks in its warmth, gives into its glow. This time, he does not return.