Christopher Kennedy
Waiting for the Lawnmower
The ceiling felt like a sidewalk. I appeared to be hovering above it in the perverse sky of my last coherent thought. All of my reasons for being here slid down the walls like passing headlights. I attempted to repeat several mantras, none of which freed me from the corporeal moment. After many hours, I was still awake, dreaming of a green void where I could breathe my lungs clean like a patient on an operating table lit by the concern of those who cut him.