I'm not ready. Island plum candles make me feel sick. The count down began ages ago, without my consent, without my knowledge, without me. Alas the pages of the hanging wall decor shift endlessly as the impossible heaps surmount all regard. Smoke rises from the pipe: tendrils swirling, mists unfurling, cages encasing --
Dreams falter without regard. Uncanny superstition of the ticking movement within effervescent space-time analogies call to the undying reality, shifting heartened illusionment to undesirable plays. Yes, undesirable.
The sun is set, the moon awaits its turn; darkness shifts under candle-lit eyelids. Emily would have said something about forgot. 36 minutes in this time of 24. Alack. Alas. Hark. Amok! I care not, for caring is all I have. Cough drops soothe some forms of ailment.
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