The incremental awakening, as though from a long sleep, that all is not as it should be; an awareness that some aspect of my being had been imperceptibly shifted.
Rolling within me, and stretching its deadened fingers, the shock of movement coursing through the bones, conscious heaviness, the apertures of the eyes swimming with confusion. Disconnection of time and space and places.
The shock to kickstart consciousness - a set of traffic lights at half past eight in the evening. The sky a starry dish; laughing and shouting superimposed onto the sound of vehicles rumbling up to the junction.
Lights burning red, forever, isolating one side of the road from the rest of the planet. Comeonthefuck, impotent disquiet at this machine-imposed exile.
The unsleeping. Something yawned and intoned: you have lost yourself, through its slack, dreaming mouth. Its tiredness a striptease, to be removed one garment at a time. The unsightly, inelastic flesh below that of a figment of the imagination, the monsters conjured by four-year-olds.
Lights glowing red, angrily. Every human who has ever lived knows that this means danger. It is a tic of the brain, a flaw. On the pavement, stasis.
A machine with lights controlling a machine with wheels, controlling a bad-tempered, disbelieving man whose ghosts beat softly, like the wings of a symmetrical butterfly, within him.
You have lost yourself.
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