Gemotions

The morning light streamed through my blinds when I saw a figure standing in my yard. It was Mr. Davies, from next door. His face was a closed book, and his stance was rigid. His shadow was long, stretching over the grass.

He was pointing at the boundary line, at the ancient oak, and his words were muffled at first. He spoke of the tree's supposed danger. The request, to cut it down, felt like a punch to the gut. The world was being warped, distorted.

I felt a strange, cold wave wash over me. I tried to understand his motives. They seemed to dance just out of reach, like reflections in a murky lake. Everything was wrong.