Change is drifting past; we’re staring into our exhaust; the corrugated aerial cylinder that surrounds the hall tintinnates with the drone of voices.
Drop your hand to your side. We’re standing on rough, damp gravel, made of shattered foam concretions, which is sharp under our wooden shoes. The rain is pattering on the faraway roof, but the thunder is coming along inside the hall, from the contracted end. There is a window far, but nearer than the roof, and we cannot see it. Tall arching lines of fine chain, sprinkled in patina and grey, rustle in the thunder wind. A tuft of maroon winds into the lee through a crack in the slide.
As the multiple thousands of spicy conical lights orchard the space from above, and reflect in the dull broken gravel, there flit from end to end boat-shaped ephemera, propelled by hairy bladders like microbiotic squids.
A smell of powdered earth and time seeping out of the skin of the dimension feathers over our faces, and runs at last along the winding corrugations of our brains.
Every working day I create an OOM, to show some of my unapologetic fascination for the OOMlich. ofourmaker.com