Michael follows his addiction into madness regarding aliens amid family life.
"The psyche is a world in which the ego is contained; perhaps there are fishes who think that they contain the sea." – Carl Jung.
He was heavy into his drugs; strung out on codeine, bursting from a starburst center near the heart of his head, vibrating outward with increasing intensity to his fingers and toes; delusions. Codeine was his best friend. It was there in the morning when he got up. It was there in the middle of the night, caressing his cortex, steeping into the median forebrain bundle, reticular activating system, thalamus, hypothalamus, amygdala, septum and hippocampus; pressing him down into his pain to meet it with peace: no pain. Lying as all lovers lie who say the day will never come/I will never leave you/She would always be there/everything was, is and always will be okay/we’re together, what else matters/ as long as we have each other…codeine, methylmorphine, C1 8H2 1NO3, o naturally occurring alkaloid of opium, narcotic analgesic antispasmodic sedative whose only drawback from continued overuse is chronic constipation; codeine, his chemical lover.
The morning after, a day in late Spring, a morning, the morning after that day, it could have been late May early June, must have been then. The air was light with cool freshness and the blue of sky and the green of greenery and foliage; grass and trees, leaves and buds, Spring fresh morning fragrant. Across the street from where he lived with his wife and child were two American holly (llex opaca not llex casseine)trees, forever full of birds (Passerculus sandwichensis and their relatives)chee[ing chirpring twittering calling greeting goodbying and generally carrying on all manner of avian linguistic activity characteristic of their species. Most days theu sounded like a large human family at Thanksgivig. That day, the morning of the day after that day, say it was the fifth of June, the birds were silent, stone cold dead silent, those birds like the birds in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales having slept all night with open eye, remained silent, remained silent, greeted the day with no sign. No birds. No people. Few people. Little traffic, foot or wheel. Ash Street as a rule is not a busy street, a car or pedestrian would be seen, could be seen, on any given day at the rate of one per minute. Michael knew. He had sat and timed it. No birds; no people; few people. No animals, the pets of people, the dogs and the cats of the people that lived in the buildings on Ash Street. The street was deserted that day. That day, the morning after that day, the day the others came.
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