Between silence and sound, lay suspended a moment. Lucy was trying to focus on her thoughts, the words in the background kept giving clues, but she could not listen to the entire sentences, and definitely could not avoid trying to make sense of sentences.
The key words kept ringing in her short term memory, slowly becoming imprints, and would eventually turn into thought-patterns. The words floating in the deathly silence in her mind were like the notes on staves of wavering frequencies.
In the whiteness of the view in front of her imaginary eye, was the quintessential evidence of possibility. Infinite possibility.
She felt somewhat reassured in this state of mind.
Now it was time to draw.
A murder led her to the heart of a Russian mob. Select cities were destroyed by the higher intelligence. The control of an unaware controller is the first step for the self-aware entity to become free.
Read that last sentence over and over again. It is SO close to the point of reality that Lucy was experiencing!
But now the morning had brought over a lot of people on the street. They were hopeful, liars, pious and forgetful. They were evil residents under the influence of malfunctioned drama. She wanted to travel to the lobster place across the street. She was hungry.
She went through the swivelling doors. Walked by the lady waiting to seat her, and sat across a table with a reserved sign on its surface.
A lonely man walked alone towards her and sat on the opposite chair. On the other side of the room, an old woman was reading some mock newspaper. The headlines read SATAN ESCAPES HELL.
The food arrived shortly. In the neighbor hood the wind was blowing over 50 miles per hour.
The dinner went smoothly, considering that Lucy was 96% invisible. The 4 percent of her that was still in the visible range, was too diffused in the noise of modern day world. The background can overwhelm the foreground to a very extreme extent in certain circumstances.
The wine was old, and it hit her. She was not sober anymore. She wondered what the difference between sober and under- influence was. One was distinctly different and short lived, while the other equally distinct and eternal.
Dinner was over. She was satisfied with her uneventful evening so far.
Through the window she saw a man staring at her. How could he see?
The stalker was blind. For him time moved very differently. There is no sun rise of sunset to define a day. The rotation and revolution of the planet had a different meaning to him. Sound was more informative than anything. Touch was a blessing.
He was staring straight at Lucy, and she was staring back at him.
Someone at the corner table just spoke a lie. In 10 minutes, the explosion was going to devour the restaurant. Every one was gonna die. Or whatever that means when the sensory machinery of "feeling" the world disintegrates and disappears.
Time passes again in a strange manner and way.
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