Sound squealing into his head, drowning out all sense of self and beingness;
he lies on his back, sticks his feet up and into the sound, into the squeal, seeking to
fill up some of the space of sound with the bones and flesh of toes, soles, tendons and
heels, that may, or
belong to his own self.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, April 2019
Image by ErikaWittlieb from Pixabay
Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian
Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.
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