The air in the room is cold
metallic chills
sere and frigid as the man,
wearing a skin-tight grey shirt,
might imagine them
he is #83
He counts the chairs
96
He closes his eyes
Colors dissipate,
Leaving him with the chattering of nervous lovers
the shrieks of restless children
he shudders
focuses on his breathing
82 leylines run through him
they fly headfirst into,
and thus depart, the room
his axis radiates
82 stories leading to him and beyond him
lines blur
voices fade
he hears the music of the universe:
silence
he sees the window of reality:
void
his vision rises as his body disappears
HE is gone
there IS nothing
the room is nowhere
breath decays, there is no air
words remit, there is no breath
past and future intertwine
oblivion begets presence
and he sees possibility
he becomes infinite faces
endless stories
an avatar of inclinations
a choir of notions
penumbra to umbra,
from naught to dusk,
from day to dream,
into the river that flows within everything,
he dissolves
there IS nothing
and in nothing, there is peace

"#83!"

I open my eyes.
The air in the room is cold.
My shirt is too tight.
There are 90-something chairs,
82 people,
and I am awake.