Monday, April 28, 2008 12:10:17 PM
The horizon is a sharp and featureless edge all around.
Time passes without measurement.
And then a grey blanket of vertical energy flickers through it all, north to south.
The energy vanishes and another weak breeze attempts to make progress in the featureless landscape.
Time passes silently.
Then another vast, grey blanket of energy, this time horizontal, descends from the pink sky and sinks into the black metal of the ground.
Time passes again. And sounds are heard all around. In the pink sky, in the black ground.
The black ground most of all.
The black ground stirs, catching a small reflection from the sky. It puckers and rises in one small place, forming an aperture. A sound of ripping ensues. The sky darkens into a greyish red. Time passes. The ground around the aperture begins to expand.
Time has nothing to gauge itself by but the slow expansion of the ground, which has turned grey where it has bulged, and developed even paler striations in all directions. The raised aperture itself has expanded and widens now in strenuous lurches.
Something pale pink and angular has pushed its way up through the aperture. It begins to rise up further, entire lengths of it in one go, and show its cuboid structures. It is almost uniform in its shape, twin rows of peaked cubes with a deep groove; all of it varying shades of the same pale pink.
It glistens with a thin layer of liquid as it rises and lengthens and begins to slowly topple over. It is almost free of the aperture and the ground is now almost flat again to receive it. The object falls with a soft thump and rests.
After time the aperture vanishes, and the land is perfectly flat again, beneath the perfectly flat object. Time watches on as the object loses its gossamer layer of slime and begins to dry; the wind dancing around the object, over its triangular tops, through its deep groove, along accurately manufactured measurements.
As it dries it begins to darken, to take on colour. Orange. Grey. Black. Green. Blue. The colour defines the different textures, picks out varying types of surfaces and structures on the cubes and peaks. Squares of mottled grey, rectangles of colour that have no pattern to them; as if that is the point. The object has little or no pink left to it after a period of time.
Then the sounds begin. The sounds of movement. Somewhere within one of the cubes, or several of them; a soft scuttling. Sometimes a thump. Sometimes several thumps. The sounds become more certain, as if there is a purpose now. A seeking out. A testing.
Then one sunless day, a red rectangle opens outwards in one of the cubes, and the pink, formless shape of a man runs out into the street.