A mountain of firewood blocks the street.
A group of sepia men carry logs into a house.
Time itself, it appears, has slipped backwards.
Voices are muffled, pitch is lowered, meaning is mangled.
These are tales of drear.
I feel each word like a step in a bog.
I am, wading, arms flailing, getting nowhere.
I sink deeper.
The dog is barking at imaginary intruders.
What the hell are these bloody photos?
The phone is taking them without my knowledge.
They become my memory.
I slept badly, my mind polluted by Donald fucking Trump.
Gonad Skunk: Make America Hate Again
Facts became a wearisome wordplay at two in the morning.
And so on.
Then I slept.