Under a Black Thunder

As soon as you slip away, the time of things hurries and passes around your slow figure with such speed it drops like a sun gone afar. Like a film about loners clicking constant in the 16mm wheel. You’re pretend dead brain fried and jumping alive. Dream slick and knifed out of your sleep. Cold night sweat, filet of air.
Lately someone is waking me, say 4-4.30 and glazed I hear the last millisecond of sound, I get up thumping clicking creeping and breathing thin. A car on the road delivering morning early I lurk around trying to find the thunder man, silence and quiet. The only water now is down my throat from the tap and back at the bed there’s a hole to fall back into, no black devil to worry for.
There There.

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