Отражение в мыльном пузыре

Whenever Thomas started playing with the fissures, the lenses in his eyes he opened a can of worms. Pressing on his eyeballs in a church so hard that he saw geometric patterns, maybe some eigenlicht. His father would ask him if he was ok, he would lift his head from his hands and peer through the geometry at his father and nod with perplexity. Staring at a night-light of Mary until it radiated starlike lances of light vertically, horizontally, in complete circus of the woman, he made going to sleep a game of the surreal. On the school bus he would juggle the floaters in his eyes over the telephone poles against the grey or blue sky. Or when you stare at one fixed point for long enough that some sensitivity that interprets light goes numb and everything is rendered a void.

Then when older he found that certain ways rendered his field of vision a grainy, static bird's eye view of nothing. The New York street lights would dissipate into a tea of ether. The night sky, but in his head. International told him that his father lost his vision in one of his eyes in the 60s by staring at the sun too long on acid or something. This was probably a tale. Still, it moved Thomas. The Very Human Condition.

The building across the street said I.O.O.F. in weird circled logo. It took years before someone told him that it was the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. Then still more years before he had a vague idea what that meant. And today, he had none, other than an unconfirmed notion that it may be a counter-masonic group. He didn't mind being called odd. The first taste of the flesh of his tongue was an adolescent magic. Let it fly.