"fuck this", says The Crawler inside his head, and pushes buttons made of nerves to invoke the right braincells: he begins packing his belongings, in no no particular order.
Not even the slightest clue to why all this is happening. No insight providing blurry black & white images of the crawler inside devising a escape plan. A lame one.
No order, and unused toys share their space with ragged underwear, fatty limbs among books and cd's. Nothing makes any sense, yet this is the only course of action left: amidst all her worries, triumphs and weaknesses there's no room left for him. Supposed to be a relentless clairvoyant, a menacing shadow to justify her shortcomings, nobody took nothing of the decaying trail of thought that drove him towards The Time Of The Crawler. Like a gnarly presence out of fantasy book, The Crawler found his place among that sort of loneliness no one is aware of. That no one wants to be aware of.
Methodically his life is packed in a manner that suggests oblivion more than self-destruction. Much as Yuri Gagarin makes Russia proud on the TV, he makes The Crawler proud in his head.
A fucking thousand million miles away some multifaceted-eyed alien fucker broadcasts all this, into the darkness, into silence, into the lack of answers, the lack of reaction, the lack of life. Into shut mouths and shut ears.