morphinomania

The room filled with silent dogs, absolutely still, staring at me as I sit in the chair. I kept the door open as some sort of offering or opening to the outside world, an invitation, bring me your wisdom and set it before me like so much opal and offal and eyeball, but all that has arrived are the unclaimed dogs of the neighborhood, collected mounds of trash beside the boarded tenements so as to climb inside air ducts and feast on discarded chunks of roadkill baked in the sun until scentless and dessicate. Now they stare here, the expanse of their potential dominion, and all I can do is stare as I have abused opium this afternoon and now want nothing but to stare, to fall into the chair in microscopic steps over secretive hours in the light of the moon. I know I need to get the dogs out, as the compound is rife with delicate technology: decaying synths held together with homemade patch cords and aleaoric electricities, the basement vector processors grinding away, the fungal samples stored in the michael-jars covering the walls of the closets back by the alley exit slowing growing into inhalable forms. I attempt high-frequency ventriloquism, sending the dogs into the street, where they pounce upon a carriage, and I find the cordless phone somewhere in the folds of the chair, and I order a sandwich and beer and a dvd of the Levana Hidden Ballet's performance of Soyez Mysterieuses from the delivery service, and this delivery boy seems to appear instantly, and I warn him to shut the door, tell him to poison the dogs, I will pay him in mutt pelts and stained canines, and he stares at me until I attempt to throw my now-cold tea in his face to shake him from his lethargy but succeed only in spilling it on my bare feet.