Almost a week into the heachache from hell, six or seven days lost to pain like burned fields behind my eyes. I can feel the nerves, black and singed, tangled in skeins running back from my shut eyes. Thoughts are lost, rolling like marbles beneath the bed, forgotten. Trying to work is hard, nothing comes from it – not sure if it is a disconnect on the project that I am working on, or just my jangled mind that won’t form images into a coherent whole.

Thoughts snarl and tangle, hanging like slutswool from barbed wire. Cold wind, bare trees, grey cloud muffling sound. The house is fallen in along one side, hearthstones cold and wet, black with the memory of flame. Holding onto thoughts is like trying to gather drifted leaves in winter, they fall to leafdust and smell of mold on the skin.

Another cup of tea, and one of coffee. Is caffeine bad? I can’t tell. Toast with strawberry jam and false butter. Chemicals and caffeine run through my blood, but fade away before they reach my tangled nappy head. Rotten and fragile, it hangs heavy on my neck, avoiding touch and light and noise. Dizzy, I lay down to read on the bed, pulling the pillow to the bottom of the bed and lying reversed with the grey light from the window falling on the white page. Reading is countermanded but necessary, as I am lonely and bored. Foolishness, feeling sorry for myself.


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