Pleats in the Fabric of Time

The world comes and goes in brief explosions of thought. Loud and blindingly bright for an instant. Then long periods of oppressive calm. Time pretends to happen. As real as any nightmare I've ever had. Thick, dark curtains across my eyes long after I've woken up. Blocking out the sun. Or the clouds. Depending on the weather.

Her routine is easy and impossible. Leave. remember. Return. Forget. The fickle amnesia of hope. That's what hell really is. Hope.

Little black ducks suffocating in a sea of swans. Glass slippers cutting calloused feet. Arrows on their lips. Pillows in their teeth. And too many dreams that never woke me up from them.

Her last word always the same as her first. Her finger always close to the light switch.

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