Stroke

I wake. Short sentence. No meaning. Words come from nowhere and go into nowhere else. More souffle than the muffin I was.

Something missing.

Some whole lots of somethings are gone.

I watch closely for them, but they don’t come back.

Just an expanse in front. Like being three inches away from whipped cream. I want to taste it. I stretch out. Can’t reach. Too far to be three inches. The thought of inch slips from me like a wet tomato seed.

Language.

Coming, going, coming, going.

Mesmerised without knowing of it.

I try to follow the words as they slip from the table. I roll towards them and find I have ejected from the toaster onto a tiny place for football. Green as lettuce. Soft as a slice of bread.

Four long parts to this dense and tangled me. They lay like spaghetti on a plate. I push one of the short ones against the bread, and it moves me further away. I let it go and I zoom back towards the lettuce. I bounce hard. A feeling. Like frying in a pan.

Something tickles like pepper, and, with no control, I feel the biggest part of me expand fast, then empty faster. A whooshing sound and a spray of fine fluid. Some part of me says two teaspoons full, but you’ll never catch it.

Thicker than water, thinner than honey.

The pepper goes away. More liquid from the holes at either side of where I am. Those holes open and close, open and close. I try to make them stop but they don’t.

Liquid, open, close.

Losing fluid faster than four flagons of fine wine in a full room of friendly drinkers.

To see me off?

One last hurrah?

Then, just like nothing, with the last gasp of nowhere, I hear the light fade, see the energy go.

stream of sparks. They reach for me. To take me with them. I just surrender.