Biscuits are slowly melting on my desktop. I can't find my tea. The mug has left stains on the wooden surface, but the vessel is lost to me.

I peer through the Venetian blinds at the slumbering world beyond my world. I haven't existed beyond this all day; this bubble, this light.

It's tiring, having eyes. They get so sore, so sticky and saggy. They always want to close, they always want darkness. A pox on eyes.

I can hear a door slamming, maybe a woman is crying. A click-clicking of the hard drive, and tack-tacking of the keyboard. Is all well?

In darkness comes midwinter. It is whisper 'til clouds flock, pecked apart by geese. They honk the wild hunt's chase through airy fathoms.

Something is slithering from my mind, down my arms, through my hands and across the alphabet before me. Now it's stinging your eyes!

It's changing now. I can almost remember what to do and why I'm here. I'm typing again. People are out there listening to the noise.

How still summer is. The night is so short and yet no life seems to exist within it. My window is acracked. I can hear the hum of turbines.