Your words flicker across the screen,
Shattered glass on soft white bread.
The minutes creep by with vague surmise. There is work to be done and my fingers, ever agile, fly over this dusty keyboard, willing myself to make sense. But sense is annihilated by a cold draught of pain, and I pause to take a breath and anasthetize my solar plexus. Or try to. The pain is constant. It doesn't pause, not even for breaths.
The world has turned black beneath my fingers.
The mist, a torn curtain made up of wispy ghosts, parts to reveal the centre of darkness.
And beyond this darkness?
Only more night.
2 comments:
You make despair sound like a lover.
That's only because it is.
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