Leaves overflowed onto the sidewalk. It was definitely autumn regardless of how unseasonably warm it was. It was disturbing how the red and green and yellow mixed together like a crumpled up Bolivian flag. Or was it a Beninese flag? Possibly Guinean.
"THESE THOUGHTS MUST STOP."
The voices again: always present, censuring his actions through some vague consensus of a nebulous body of others, always dictating strange, nonsensical actions to placate an absurd disembodied humor.
"ORGANIZE THE LEAVES BY COLOR."
"But I have to run to lab soon to finish my experiment." The arguments were always in vain. The voices cannot allow dissent.
"ORGANIZE THE LEAVES BY COLOR."
Concession. He sat down on a worn chair on the porch and pulled out a pack of Parliaments light, the civilized man's cigarette (The voices had earlier informed him thusly, on account of the gap in the filter). One drag. Another drag, and then the headrush. Normal smokers might think they are able to empathize with the feeling; however, Dougal is not a normal man and this is not a normal smoker's buzz. The intense headaches, worse than cluster migraines, always accompanied something very peculiar.
His neurons buzzed and pulsed. He concentrated intently, staring at a single green leaf. Or was it red? It was distinct from yellow, for sure. He stared. The essence of the color became the only thing about which he could think. He thought, concentrated, and then exhaled his smoke.
The leaves began to move.
An outside observer would be amazed by the anti-entropic self-organization unfolding in a whirlwind of flying leaves; however, Dougal was nonplussed. He took another puff of cigarette and the leaves began to move faster and faster.
"FOCUS"
He did. His life flashed in front of him; another puff. Another puff. Another puff. He realized quickly that the cherry was approaching the filter. There was yet work to be done or the voices would remain enraged.
He focused. Finally, an acrid taste of burnt filter inundated his throat. Completion. His neurons quieted. His brain stopped pulsing. The voices finally went silent.
He stood up and looked at his handiwork. The leaves were now suitably arranged by color in neat, single layered rows, whose vector representation indicated a positive slope.
"Ah, I was incorrect."
It was definitely the Congolese flag.
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