Every time I ended up in his armchair, I felt like burrowing into its mossy velvet, like I was lichenizing—melding with the fabric’s fur until I’d dissolved into its green, lifeless embrace. The rug between us was a black hole. A spiral drawing that sucked up my eyes and thoughts. I sat there in silence, staring at the curtain over the window behind him. I wanted to stay just like that, hardly taking in the hot January air. But the hole yanked my eyes to the middle of the room, and next thing I knew, there he was, eyes fixed on me as he waited for me to pour out my insides. As if it were easy,
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From "Wild Inside"
