(Segment 9)
Ice is forming underneath his socks. This is an odd place for ice to form.
Multigenerational war-torn legs grossly underestimated. One wouldn’t expect much from them.
Stasis. Cocoon based breathing, wiggle room left over for the in- and out- wards movement of shell. Anointment of the shell sheath was poignant, handed down three generations at this point, it is an important tradition to enter the cocoon of the ancestors. The special shell has played a massive role in the colony’s success, but it hasn’t been cleaned out for a while. Sedimentary layers of dust have begun compiling in the bottom twin-fork tail of the cocoon. My feet feel this dust now, my socks are submerged in it.
Ripe pill bag. Plastic architecture surrounds ecstatic lung movement, ecstatic to be alive and prescribed a pill on which to bed down. Five generations of grandmothers have passed this pill bag between each other. Importantly; the pill bag can only touch the hand of the next descending grandmother below. By this stage, a great many years after the pill bag was purchased, the medicine inside has all gone rather-horribly off, but the bag is now ripe. Sedimentary plastic layers compile at the bag base, my socks are still on, but I feel the plastic layers through the thin sock cotton.
Fridge-freezer ice cave. Snowed in hoping to be snowed out, the hollows formed in the negative space of an icetray are spaces of stasis. A breathing staircase joins two landings. Multi-layered icetray diplomacy, please evict me from this sacred ground. Coldness fills each breath, puffs of white smoke bellow. Ten generations now, this freezer is pushing its golden years. Technology left it behind, but only after it was left behind by the seventh generation. It really should be taken out back, gas canister popped. Sedimentary ice layers compile, freezing my feet to the spot(s). Ice is forming underneath my socks, strange that I should be in a freezer.
Horse saddle leather strapped. Creaking for inhalation followed exhalation, exalting in the sway superficially generated. Superficial sway is generated by red-hot iron rod applied to rump, medium-rare please. The saddle is creaking properly, as well it should after these eighteen generations. Eighteen warp jump excursions, leather lifted from a moment in the past and wrung out over the years. Stretched. Perhaps the saddle shouldn’t support a strapped weight any longer, retirement awaits us all and all things there under. Sedimentary horse manure compiles in the stirrups. My socks are going to need a wash.