When the watercolor splatters floating before my eyes began to multiply, I found a comfortable armchair to sit down. My head started to spin, and a blue needle rose from the back of my neck, surpassing even my head to touch the ceiling of the concrete space I was in.
The needle was a line—thinner or thicker than what I usually draw—a vibration in the exact color of ink spilling from the tip of a pen. My eyes could no longer control my mouth or my body; getting up from where I sat was now impossible. The last thing I remember was being on the verge of fainting, and then I woke up with a chill at the back of my neck, at the exact spot where that line began. I had passed out for a few seconds or milliseconds, losing that tiny fragment of time. Afterward, the words within what I said collapsed into one another, and I fell silent before my utterances could distort into something completely detached from their meanings.
Among the absurd questions I asked, there were other artists trying to comfort me, trying to make sense of that black line. I asked them to describe the tiny moment I had lost; they couldn't manage it, or perhaps I just didn't hear them. I lay down and placed ice right at the base of my neck to shudder even more. There, ideas ground to a halt, time slowed down—and if such a thing as time ever existed, it was entirely absent there.
Drawing on sketchbook.
2026, Demon Ego
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