This bed is bloated- still pregnant with the remnants of ideas and ardour which were still born. Somewhere, swaddled in layers of solace, the music is still playing. Don’t touch it. Leave it to be mellowed out under the pillows that melt into your hair- or is it the music which melts? This bed is vast, an island- salvation- yet its breathing is laboured where it has to cough up half burnt out ends, and plasters, bloody, losing their tack, stuck to the same sheets which have been there for months. I’ll get up when I’m ready.
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