Eyes race back and forth, but his body, standing before the prow, never actually moves.
There is a puzzle, and it needs to be solved. Just deep breaths.
One hand holds a cloth bag full of chalk. The other has been resting inside the bag for some time now.
The powder is everywhere. The hand holding the bag is encrusted; white and ghastly, the knuckles pronounced.
The powder continues up his forearms like war paint.
His pants, once brown, have lightened several shades due to buildup on the thighs and buttocks.
There are small streaks on his face from brushing back his hair every now and then.
His feet are covered by tight blue slippers, coated in soft, black rubber.
Still, only the eyes are moving.
The floating dust envelopes him. A colonnade of particles dancing in the low light.
There is a puzzle here. Maybe he knows the answer, but still he hasn’t moved.
His eyes slowly close. He drops the bag and brings his hands to his heart.
A calming air surrounds him as he breathes deep.
He tightens his calves, then his thighs, his stomach, his shoulders,
and so on in sequence until the wave reaches his head.
He slowly opens his eyes, and once more inspects the rock in front of him.
Deep breath.
It is time to begin.
(by t-rock)
(by t-rock)
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