When we are sick we lie becalmed, eyes dull and loose-limbed. And the stillness penetrates our soul, like stars stuck deep in the coaled sky. Just a universe away.
We wait. For time to rise, for times we crawled across floors to seek out new pleasures. Spinning tops and the rich tapestry carpet beneath our young flesh.
Little Lamper, I was once as you. Eyes bright and crawling. I can hear the hum still of my spinning top, a train racing round in endless circles. I set off once on a journey to find it, hidden a million miles across the snake-traced carpet.
I'm still searching, Little Lamper. May I crawl a while with you?
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