interesting niche. He was an old aboriginal man who was also an artist with down right erie abilities. He could paint pictures that seem to appear in more space then they occupied. Like there was another dimension in what you saw but your brain just couldn’t quite put it all together. He used a kind of ink that wasn’t ink at all. It was made from some sort of plant he grew that was unlike anything found just about anywhere. While he did his art, he would chant in his native tongue at a level barely audible to the ear. A fire was always lit and another kind of plant would be added to the flames producing a smoke that caused hallucinations. One last thing about his art, the pictures he created were alive.
Alive or dead? I can’t tell anymore. I exist, that much must be true, but I no longer know how I exist. The line between alive and dead has become blurry. There are places that seem more real then others. There are people that also seem more real then others. My memories of my life have become spotty. I remember being a little boy dreaming of climbing to the moon. But I don’t remember what happen between that boy and the man I became. As a man, I remember a strange lady, how she made me nervous, and group of people who lived to have fun. There are random bits of memory floating around, some of it in clumps that have stuck together. An old man with weathered skin told me he could see inside of me, the tissue that grew in my head. And the story that tissue told him. I remember a rest stop on the road and an old camper on blocks a little ways behind it. I remember being afraid of a spider that was far too big for comfort. Last thing that I remember, and it is crystal clear, all my life I wished to be free of my mortal bonds… to