Glass walls and brick ones and stone and wood rose up with floors of sand and ice, grass and gravel, and the one who had hacked the great mystery, seen through all the lies and fears and unknowns into the truth of the dichotomy of power and control, stood there at that intersection with his fingers trailing against one wall (brick) wondering how they had made a place he could not leave.
For it was empty save for him, and thus was he empty.
The breeze and the grass felt good. He'd been counting tactile sensations for hours, starting over whenever his mind wandered and he lost count. It was always exciting when he remembered he could feel his teeth pressing on each other, the folds of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His shirt had formed a little whorl against his forearm below where it had hitched up a little when he let his elbow rest on the ground. That alone accounted for twenty or so inputs, but it was hard to separate them from each other with his eyes closed and only his skin to tell him what was up.
Salt was on the air, and a phlegmy sort of tang from the oil. The tide was going out, little bits of flotsam and bone and rock appearing from the retreating surf, and leaving the beach a slimey, black waste/wonderland. A gull floundered nearby. He could hear the thing squalling its distress.
Cosmo could remember a time, not too long ago, when the sound would have brought him. He would have wanted to help. That time had passed.
The hill he had found was perfect for his mood. It jutted up out of the beach, and the water ran right up to it. He'd even tied a line around his big toe and cast it down into the crude. It made him look picturesque for the hypotheticals that looked at him in his head. It gave him a reason to linger in that place but not to stay.
Cosmo was tired. He was worn out. He was good and done.
I don't really know where this is going, but it felt good to get it down. Right now, it feels good to get anything down.