Three-Day Weekend

One day I can see Tokyo and Yokohama at the same time,

The next I'm chasing a hug through the Chuo line,

And the other I'm bedridden with fever.

Ósýnilegur

Silence. Hundreds of eyes look at me to find walls at a longer distance. I tried to speak earlier this morning, but a hollow whistle came out instead of my voice, and it was disregarded as a whimsical current flowing through a narrow hall. I've already begun to turn yellowish and transparent. Mirrors seem to be whispering my presence, and I cling to them as if an imprint were to remain where I once stood.

My skin is turning into a thin crust of liquor puris and dead cells. Underneath it nothing remains: there is no snake crawling out of the rejected coating. I cannot take a bath anymore, lest the water turns me into a giant hangnail. The wind will blow tomorrow morning and this body will be reduced to a floating swirl of repulsive flakes.

Whoever dreamed of fooling the laws of physics never felt the need to be acknowledged as a human being.