Intermittent

bed in the sky

There’s no need to cry now, darling – the ambulance has gone. In the misty night, the violet rainfall of stars, obscuring the buildings, cessation of shape. The fireworks, hours ago, in cloudy abandon, puttered to their conclusion. A perfect night to be unable to sleep. The bookshop, with its many stories, doors into corridors used by staff, the stairs leading down to the stock-room; implausibly large chambers, echoey, where, trespassing, the genuine architecture is disclosed.

Just loosing it, when some loud clunk, a chair from the balcony, perhaps, dislodged by the wind, begins consciousness again, an alert jerk. The sirens map out a future territory of wounds like, going round and round, the lights on a Christmas tree. What is this thin stream, in which consistently and repetitively trying to drown myself, I fail to succeed? The rain drops hit the outside of the window-pane like the ticking of a clock without hours.

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