|The Red Button
There is a red button. Should we call someone? Not flashing but positively sure of redness. Pressure exerts itself in an infinite amount of ways, pushing to push, feel it in the tensed, fat fingers. Only call in emergency. No flashing but pressure to. The ways in which red becomes fire and fire becomes everything. Democratic. The words are like eels, and you are slipping. Sense the danger. Palpable, cutting through the red, emanating from the button. Succumbing seems less than optional even preferable. A triumph for gravity? The emergence of red, fiery pain flashing. A democratic emergency, an accident.