IAN sits at the cluttered table. IAN crouches by the window.


IAN:                It’s morning. Silence. Dawn. Silence. The period (not the grammatical punctuation but the briefness of a moment) of time, an aspect of aging, a physical measurement of aging, where the crisp light from the sun becomes visible for the first time during the day (day being the precise calculation of twenty-four hours from milliseconds to seconds to minutes to hours, which are defined by their division into specific slots of time calculated by the earth rolling over once in relation to the aforementioned sun). Silence. I get it. I get it. Silence. Because invariably the question: what if we don’t see the sun or the light does not break through the clouds? Is it still dawn? By staring out the window I am sure you are pondering that very question, as I ponder it by staring at the clutter on the table. Without going into details, thereby becoming very simple, simply, it is not relative. Is it relative? If the light, being crisp, and being first—

IAN is interrupted by IAN crouching closer to the window.


IAN:                You haven’t said good morning. Or happy dawn. Or Wonderful period (not the gram—

IAN:                Nope.


IAN:                It would be nice—

IAN:                Nice?

IAN:                The custom of kindness.

IAN:                I am accustomed to—

IAN is interrupted by IAN cluttering the table.


IAN throws a clutter at the window. The window breaks.

IAN:                Well, that ruined my morning.

IAN:                Aha! Morning. You said morning.

IAN:                I haven’t said good.

IAN:                Good, good! You said good. You said morning. You said good morning.

IAN:                I said morning. I said good. I said morning good.

IAN:                True. Silence. Truth. Silence. Truth? Silence. Truncated?! Silence. You always have to be special.

IAN:                Special?

IAN:                Special!


IAN:                You said special, didn’t you?

IAN:                Special. Very special.

IAN:                Not very.

IAN:                Very; very—very.

IAN leaves the window and flips the table over.

IAN:                When you spoke the vibrations of your mouth did not affect the air into the effective form of very.

IAN:                You said morning good. Silence. You said morning good! Silence. Yrev.

IAN throws the chair out from under IAN and catches him before he falls, dragging him to the broken window/hole and squeezing him through it. Just as he falls, he grabs IAN’s hand and he dangles underneath the hole/window for a brief moment of quiet. IAN and IAN’s struggle is muffled, plentiful and serene. Then, IAN’s feet lose their grip and IAN and IAN fall from the window into a giant mound of soft balls made of cotton and feathers that are all sorts of colours until they realize that the fluffy balls are sucked against tiny random holes that suddenly burst air from them shooting the balls and IAN and IAN into the air. The balls burst and IAN and IAN frantically gather the cotton and feathers while still falling, building a large hot air balloon with such dexterity that would be too incredible to believe if not for the very sight of it before your very eyes. They cling to the outside of the basket, unable to climb into it. They scream some type of words. Their grip is slipping. They sweat profusely. Yet, with great strain, they bend the air balloon to stern which gives enough force to finally allow it to descend. It lands on the roof of IAN and IAN’s home. There is a wide translucent skylight in the middle of the roof. They let go of the hot air balloon and topple onto the skylight, as the hot air balloon floats away. They press their eyes and nose and lips against the skylight. They see in great detail the upturned table and the clutter cluttered across the space. The strong wind continues to loosen the glass from the window/hole until the air balloon sucks itself into the hole/window, squeezing into it, breaking off the remaining shards of glass until it is stuck within it, its feathers and cotton breaking apart and forming into the window/hole completely replacing the glass. IAN and IAN notice that their home begins to expand and expand as the skylight shrinks and shrinks until IAN and IAN’s foreheads press for the little skylight space, eventually compromising for half an eye each. Each of their eyes are squeezed together as the space beneath the shrinking skylight is impossibly gargantuan.