Boiling Point.

I sleep like a forgotten milk pan. At first dreams simmer on the stove of night – birds dive through my shuttered canopy; I watch from a rock in a sea of browning moss. Then the past rises up as insistent bubbles; at first at the edges of consciousness, then desperate at the panicked surface. And it all spills over, spitting on a flaming hob.

too-beige room…

some days nine some ten

is my answer

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