Lucid Pebble

Computer functioning again. Yippee. The first thing I do is blog, despite the many tasks before me tonight, but my head is empty and seems to have not much interesting to say, and as I say this I just might think of something interesting, and if I have nothing interesting to say then why should I blog here? And is it okay for me to type even though I have nothing to say? My brain is a pebble. The pebble is unmoving. Unmoving. Unmoving. Unmoving. The pebble is in a box, it's in what feels like a box, the space between the pebble and the frame of this box is incredibly wide, the air is cold, the pebble shivers, and when the pebble shivers it looks funny because it has no limbs to cover it's body, no expressions to induce sympathy, it merely vibrates in odd rhythms like a malfunctioning microengine, one cannot tell that it's cold, but if one does tell that it's cold, one is tempted to shoot water at it and watch it sling across the width of the box until it is trapped in a corner only to be bounced back into the open space, totally submissive to the water pressure, crashing against the frame of the box, then trapped into another corner, and the exquisite torture repeats itself.

Two fingers, the same fingers that dictated the aforementioned shooting, pick up the pebble that is now beaten and inert. There is an abusive tenderness in their grip as the pebble exposes its wet body to the cold air, now many inches above the floor, and is dropped, into a cup of bubbling soda. The pebble does not, as the torturer had hoped, dissolve in a manic fizz. It merely sinks to the bottom entirely within itself.