To Make Matters Worse
All the things that happen, all the decisions people make not knowing how things will turn out, how those decisions will affect things that happen after, events which time or people in time haven’t come to yet, until it’s all over, and there are no more events, when every decision ruined things for the next decision, and so on until the last destroyed everything, and there’s [n]othing always then.
But Nothing has a good memory and often thinks back to the good old days, back to when time was still running out, all history crumbling in reverse, the ruins rebuilding themselves all through the ages, back to a time when Mason could do [n]othing but scratch himself.
All Mason’s mosquito bites were fresh as a prehistoric apocalypse.
He could only laugh about it now, as crazy as they drove him then.
He tried thinking of anything else: things, other things which weren’t the first things he thought of, and then he tried to not think.
He tried shrinking his thoughts of mosquito bites into when the universe was the size of an atom, before it exploded into a flower which would soon bloom so big it would rip itself apart.
He tried to not scratch its galaxies tingling his arms and legs and the back of his neck as they spun his skin like a web around in his thoughts.
He could almost hear them burning.
He felt them evolving, probably inhabited by civilizations with no understanding of healing moisturizer lotion.
Those civilizations evolving, maybe, maybe that’s what all itched—
The buildings going up, experiments in transportation, drilling for oil, deforestation, nuclear war…
All Mason knew was his fresh mosquito bites were driving him crazy.
They itched all.
Mason squirted a few pumps of healing moisturizer lotion into his palm and spread it out onto his arms and legs and the back of his neck.
He began talking to his body:
“You’re all going to die,” he laughed.
“Murderer,” his body itched back.
“Don’t rub it in,” Mason said, spreading the lotion.