The walk towards to door, in that blisteringly hot summer day, was torture on its own. Beads of sweat nestled on the brows, like birds perched with intentions of mating. A tickle on the edges of sanity, one by one, the heavy legs of mind, started the bi-muscular death march. At least it seemed that way.
And in a weird sense, there was an urgency about feeling the heat that emanated from the door. That metal bound, wooden and heavy door. The sun rays sliced through the cracks as if lasers, ready to bite any appendage off. The body there, paused again, with nary a thought of its own. Nary a breath taken.
The death march, took forever in the mind’s eye.
Instrumentalist and composer Patrick J. Hagan’s ‘Nausea’ envelops and let’s you imagine a slice of your life.
That’s a win, ain’t it? For sure.