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137
“You didn't see anything” – repeat the comforting voices,
the needle pulls out of my skin.
“It was nothing, nobody, you're imagining it” – I hear, or
rather dream, that they're speaking to me.
“Shh, shh, go to sleep” – the last thing I can make out is the
voice of the scout leader: “Go to sleep, dream” – the warmth
of a hand on my chest. The warmth of the sun still at its
zenith, while I fall asleep too early, exceptionally early. A
cotton ball with a drop of rubbing alcohol on it raises a
silent toast to the little hole where the mixture of
beneficent poison and healing sleep has entered. Time
passes, the minute and hour hands can't hold me. The
clocks on all sides of the tower spin. Now I can see in all
four cardinal directions, too, but I can't seem to move in a
single one of them.
Uranus
The control point is the smallest possible space that can
contain the ultimate goal or just the temporary goal of this
leg of the race, the searching and finding, the blazing of a
trail in this thick impenetrable forest. So what's the
function of the meadow, then – a place to rest and to play
or a ruse, a trap set by strange forces? Clever bait to draw
you out of the forest into the open, so that the eyes of spy