3:27 am.

He had no idea what had woken him. But now awake he needed to pee. He shuffled to the bathroom; hands outstretched before him like he was playing a game of blindman’s bluff.

He now stood in a world of grey that was neither night nor day. A monochrome scene. All objects reduced to a shadow. A two dimensional nothing-ness.

A black fish macabrely suspended on a gnarly knotted gaff; hung above a ghostly yacht, becalmed on a porcelain plateau of calm. All surrounded by a shroud of grey.

Beneath him the tombstone cold tiles sucked the warmth from his bed sworn feet. Consuming the heat like a wintery swamp.

This is what you get after falling asleep listening to Nick Cave; or maybe it was a chilli rush. The recipe that Sam used insisted on four tablespoons of chilli powder (Yes FOUR!)

Either way I’ve tried to make some sense of it. And for the grammar police amongst you I apologise for my brain not being able to spell or write coherently at “stupid” oclock.

I have no real recollection of the physicality of scrawling the above. Maybe it was “sleep writing.” There are occasions though, when I have a head full of thousands of words. Unwritten lyrics, poems, plays and book ideas, all shoaled up together swimming around with great acceleration. Sometimes it can feel like concussion. A great weight. I guess they have to escape sometimes.

Published by simon

Chief bookworm at Foxed Finds vintage store on Etsy and in situ at The Antique Village near Hele Devon. Traditional angler, terrible surfer and prone to bouts of unprovoked stupidity.

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