Too Cold

:) I will take up the spot.

It's like the light hit the fan, because this new awareness could be compared to that. In fact, the only light hung warmly above, though the red wave faded closer to the ground, closer to him. It just barely touched the doors, and there it holds cold at the bottom.
The word Weston is vaguely imprinted on the hardwood floor.
The man adresses the script: "Weston. My name is Weston."
Now, reader, I would like to enlighten you on the dire, airless dis that this newly borne Weston has engaged. This first fresh breath is his declaration- to whom?
Weston's stare rises upward until it meets the steady gazes of his oppossites on the walls. Wes has all the necessery facalties and functions of a life, and now the moon has showed it's bleak face. Weston's only neighbors are faces; cold and smooth. Ceramic. Symbols on ominous entryways. He would move his lips in desperate expression, but who is there? God, is an overhanging light awash in warmth that does not reach him. There to spectate.
And now there is silence past his words. This will be the highest point in his life: the last time he speaks and expects to be spoken to.
Watch him, as he widens his perception. Look at his eyes- they stop. Why move? The air around him slows and stiffens. His shoulders tense, then his back, then his neck, now his jaw.
He counts.


A whisper??
was that a whisper--

A scream grows in his head too loud for sound to express. In a flame of movement he runs and throws himself through the hole in the breathing door.
Adrift in ocean, one is freed from landlocked constraint.