In His Dome.
When I wandered back into the house for the second and last time, he was still sitting there. He sat in the exact same spot, in the exact same position, and I wondered if he'd moved even to breathe a sigh of anything, be it relief or dread. It was the first time I had thought to stop and think about him in the manner that really made my wheels turn; what it was going on in his head that was powerful enough to stone him in a rickety wooden chair that sat in the corner of his kitchen. For a moment I felt almost obligated to become paralyzed myself, and there was a slight inclination that it would have been most rewarding. Although time did not permit, the stone man in his wooden chair that sat aghast with his mouth hung wide open did not leave my thoughts for a long time following that moment, and perhaps has still not left even now.
There was so little I knew about this man and so much I wanted to know, whether it'd hit me with a dead stop in my tracks and an absolute battering of insight and information, or I was going to have to work tedious hours to merit my access into these confidential reports. My method of access didn't intimidate me, because for some reason, all I wanted was more of the inspiration fumes that seemed to waft through the air around him with every slight move of his baggy clothing. The scent was so strong and so powerful that my second entrance into the house ruled by squalor felt immediately poisoning in a manner so dominant I almost stepped back when I saw him still sitting there, mouth gaping. What a sweet feeling it was to be poisoned with stimulating revelations such as these, as I wandered about, noting the dusty gas mask that hung by a tack on the wall.
I don't think he knew it at the time, but I was stone dead like him, too, barely able or willing to move for fear it would disturb the busy flow of thoughts and sentences that ran through my brain at the first chance I had to think. All at once I wanted to help him, acknowledge him, educate him, be around him, be him. As much as I understood the dangerously normal nature of what his problems seemed to be, I couldn't help but note the intensity in which he felt for all these things, and how ferociously those thoughts constantly ran around his head, crashing into and devouring every innocent and masterfully blueprinted brainwave that got in their way. He knew that he was crazy, and convinced himself that he was crazy, but it seemed like nobody had stopped to put their hand on his shoulder and tell him that was in fact not crazy at all. It seemed like if anybody had tried up until now, he wouldn't have trusted them for a second.
And so he sat, identical to the stone body that sat below him, and all the stone bodies that secretly surrounded, contemplating life so madly that the passing of brainwaves in each of our internal super-highways had shut off the bodies of the world congruently. I had nothing but appreciation for moments like those and the people that could experience them, because it suggested the still-lingering presence of thinkers in the world, and people who truly were the last interesting things left. The millions of sounds had ceased and it was just us now, just barely starting to break through to the other side of the wall of our asylum cells and imaginary fences. With enough work and enough size to the hole in that very wall, I would be able to convince him that the cell to his right, and the cell to his left, and every cell all the way down both sides of the hallway looked entirely identical to his own. Despite the problems that plagued him, the fallacies that frustrated him, and the lingering stench of squalor and stimulation that surrounded him, he was in fact not crazy. I was going to do whatever I had to in order to tell him that he was just incredibly god damn interesting.