He’s still staring at the wall. Every one of them. The days. And he believes he can make it move. It seems to breathe. So many faces he’s seen there. Over the weeks. And it stares back. And in turn it can make him shrink, or grow. In the tiniest increments. Feeling himself shift, not knowing when is the next time. But suddenly he is bigger, smaller, until the resolution, and they are both back to the origin.
He will break to eat from a small white box. It too has lasted longer than he can remember. And then the other things he must do, as in sharpening the arrows he mentally sends out the door. To kill the beast. The trillion headed beast like a hydra of spores dashing off in atomic frenzy. To every doorknob and sneeze. And hospital. But softening now, becoming less mean, tiring, retiring. Because of his arrows.
He eats from his box. It is empty. He is starving.
Still he eats. It eats. They are both very tired now. They have worked so hard so long. It wanted to stop everything. Every smoke stack. Every heart perhaps. And leave only the eels and slugs and vines and shrubs with poison berries.
It will devour the poison berries, and die happily another day.
He will continue to eat from his white box. The wall will consume him. Make him many many consumable products. Because they are there. They are an electric field. An array. And the other thing – it has no conscience.