The realization grows a mustard seed. It’s a tiny notion, a visceral feeling. A living reality. The signs are all around. My body, the parasites, the people, the wind, sand, and stars.
What are they saying?
There’s a bell ringing in a wooded copse. It rings aloud, alone, with prolonged decay. I hear the note. I want to find the source.
It’s not here.
The mustard seed grows into a towering redwood. It’s the truth.
WHAT IS HAPPENING!
I scream, i dare not tell the people.
I AM THE ALIEN.
I’m not supposed to be here.
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