He moved beyond the boundaries of the room, and as he went through the door, a column of air passed across him, sharply cold, reminding him his body was a body, moving his hair, the loose fabric on his misshapen frame, and when he went to take his leave from the column, to free himself from it, it followed him, each step of his matched by the column's motion on down the hallway, and he began to cry, softly at first, then a little louder, but never less than constantly, and yet since he was not thinking about the sounds he was making but only making them, he did not accept them as his own but as something other, a sea that ran out to the horizon, where it was far enough away to let him deride someone else for the crying and confidently renter the room.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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