This narrative does not begin with a move or an earthquake. It begins on a Wednesday in September at 8:11 p.m.
I was thinking deeply of a landscape I couldn't place, but felt such a horrible longing for.
Dark, clean rock as walls supporting a vast immobile lake. It was so deep-set and so thoroughly
kept within those solid blank walls that the place was almost windless. Almost lifeless.
Without life, was it not a Dead place? I flipped the switch on the
coffee maker as I thought this last thought. It made sounds like cats vomiting and clocks ticking.
I waited for it to subside into dripping while I sank in to my couch. Still thinking of: Eudoxia.
That was the name of the lake. EUDOXIA. It's state, it's locale, still lost to me. At this thought, I
found my chin on my chest with my spine curved profoundly to accommodate my position; falling
backward in to the couch. It frightened me, as if I were leaving---and I didn't know I was going.
It was a painful moment. I moved quickly, but stiffly to the coffee maker. How I should be so stiff
after such a brief...the clock read 11:41 pm. I have never been so startled. I didn't recall sleeping
or waking.
The coffee was thick and unkind from it's houres on the burner. I drank it standing.
END TO OPENING SEQUENCE.
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