The lights are switching on and off at an astonishing rate, giving the more sensitive among us a difficult time of it, sending them running and tumbling in all directions. Some don’t have the off switch it takes to stop flailing after sufficient exposure to such an infernal stimulus, and meet their untimely deaths. Right before passing, they enter a trance where they see every color imaginable, forming a pattern that’s tiled with images of themselves throughout their lives. Most of them are nostalgic, though some present challenges to keep them busy, were they to continue on with their lives, allowing them to feel a bit less urgent before their final moment eclipses them.


Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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