The skin had somehow changed in the night. He could feel the brittle turtle like protusions of the tree as he wandered over a few feet to the brook. The brook in turn had changed, the water was sour, strange, he recalled a candy a flash a childhood, but couldn’t center on it, he stopped drinking. The air was strangely ashen like a fire had broke through the place, and then he walked. A group of gila monsters were already sniffing around. A lonely dolphin plunked through the streams grazing on darting bits of refuse, somewhere an amalgalm of sight and smells told him, something new had broke in. He could barely make out the difference, by noon the new skins, the new smells had become normal. He saw shifts in trees, large comprehensible flocks of birds sat down on branches that faded to sour colors and dissipated like a pinch. The birds cowed to each other in swarms, their octaves breaking into impossible sonics, a borealis of sounds echoing upwards leaving only a liminal trail of wisps in the palette’s floor.
The Yeti were gathering the mountains. If he tried he might be abler to seduce them into talking to him. When a Yeti spoke the words he thought in became incomprehensible, an imitation of language that tasted like plastic on the tongue. The bird canopy existed for kilometers, but he sped up and made it out of the forest and where the rocks began, their grain was suitably familar, he could remember the slight confidence of their solidity, the way rocks speak out to you: you won’t slip. Of course when he did slip, the rocks hurt him quite bad, but at least they had the same skin, the one he’d known before.