I fell asleep again at five, imagined dialogue fading in my mind, ideas to write.
Awoke nearer nine, strident light of a frosty morn oosing through the weave of my dark curtains, gold and silver; pleats of smoked mackerel skin.
Now I close my eyes for meditation's visions, to find an auditorium of folding chairs in a tornado.
Clatter, clatter.
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