Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Thousand: Six Hundred Thirty-Seven

the white boxes. The door whuffs shut. Right. What to do now. Go back in. Forget it. Go back to the dorm. She gingerly pushes the door again, not noticing she’s holding her breath. The room’s are always painted white, white linoleum, white plastic trash can liners, white upholstered stools, it might just be nerves. Right. Seeing things. Seeing nothing. She continues very slowly to push the door into the room. The white box lets it out. That’s what happens after awhile. You leave the white box open and the fog comes out, fills up the room. If you leave


Elisabeth said...

Fog can be stunning, the way it engulfs all that lies within its reach. I enjoy this white box, Glenn, its promise of obscurity.

Glenn Ingersoll said...

Promises, promises.

Thanks, Elisabeth.