Pool_2

her leg. The ground was scattered with dead. The oil painting that Sissy did of this theme brought her huge attention as an artist. "It addresses what we know and what we want, of what we don't know, to be." Young Marcus had accepted his Sister's gift, this sketch. "Cool," having no idea of what she was talking about. Sissy was deep. Really deep. Your honor, my other character witness is my sister who paints the dead and the possessed. If anybody knows wierdos, it's her, or is it she, your judgementalness. Old compass, three way plugs, two of them, oh - my old needle nose pliers? How did they, and my lens cap! This was going nowhere. The boxes of old research materials. No. He sat back distracted. Damn, he thought. What do I need? How do I fend off smears with documents? Floundering through contracts, deeds, agreements, research papers, books on ethics and medicine, he was looking through his past for remedies, proofs of who he was. There were none. He couldn't prove himself to himself. How could he prove himself to others? Certificates? Of what? He realized that he wasn't raised to handle shit like this. There are no proofs in certificates. Prove myself? Who's the judge? Fair and impartial? As the death of fairness and the mockery of impartiality pulsed and receded, his thoughts became less and less attached to specifics, lists, exceptions and inclusions. His Sister's sketch was gnawing at him. Deep receptivity was intensifying to levels he never knew were in him. Walls between facts were dissolving. Rigid medical categorizations were giving way to liquid association and endlessly recombinant insight. Intruder. In that heightened state, an alarming trespass, a conclusion, someone was breaking in. Brief composure was enough to confirm the faintest of sounds, of the downstairs back door being jimmied. A fast peek revealed that there was a sitting running car with a driver in front of the house. He thought he saw, no, he saw a gun.