I gawped, sweating
and bare faced at the obscure object. The great sweltering palm of summer bore
down on the area like a great fucking duvet of boiling asphyxiation, and I was
in the middle of it.
Yellow is a hateful colour.
A single tree loomed like a tiny sharp prick, prodding
against the searing hot celestial sphere. I could imagine some gun-slinging
cowboy galloping in the distance in a great Western saga. Of course, this would
be viewed from the cool comforts of a living room sofa. I wonder how I would
look right now to those comfortable bastards, finger on the remote like a
trigger, interest in me only to see whether I’ll die of exhaustion or a bullet,
and pull the trigger if neither occurs. The former seems more likely. From what
I could tell, there was no source of shade or relief in my immediate
surroundings, except for a largish boulder several feet away. For me, these details were blurred in a hazy
abstract that could rival Kandinsky.
Removing a
back-handful of sweat from my brow I again stared at the object upon which I
had been fixating moments ago. What was before obscured by a veil of sweat and
disbelief, I could confirm my earlier assumption that I was indeed staring at a
china teapot. The likelihood of stumbling upon an object this well preserved
and in a location so far removed from any form of life led me to believe it was
subject to my disillusioned and tormented mind. I felt a bead of sweat run from
my hair down my back.
How much water can someone lose before delirium takes over?
My mind swam with feverish contempt. I hated everyone on the
planet on the basis that they were not here, suffering with me. I dropped to me
knees, with all the grace a fat man has when dive-bombing a swimming pool, and
edged close to the teapot. My God how it was vivid. For a simple projection of
my mind it was beautifully detailed. Not that I like that sort of thing, I was
just aware of the gold leave trimmings that betrayed the luxury of the object,
and the detailed images of some kind of pink flower. I took one dirtied finger
and pressed it against the porcelain surface. An intense heat greeted it with a
kiss of agony that startled me and my senses. I noticed then that steam was
emanating from the stout in ethereal wisps that soon dissipated.
The teapot was real.
The teapot was real.
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