All the Places You’ll Stay Put in

Prologue

Pitted notches in the bereavement of light, we are susceptible to nods of disapproval that rend our dreams nightly.

The body will annoyingly retain water only to excrete it at the most inconvenient time, i.e. when the person has finally fallen into a nice, deep sleep, for once, such a rare thing that it is for that person, to be calm and supinely relaxed, not even a revolving door of nightmares to wretch to, this time, and then, for some abysmal reason that is at once perfect and absurd, blam, the body decides that it is time to unload its bladder’s full capacity of urine, so waking that person up from their deep slumbers so as to wander dizzy and unstable towards the bathroom.

Morning Has Broken

It’s a shitty way to fall awake, to be murdered alive out of obsolescence into the raging crush of the world’s meatier aspects. Hierophany mocking the way you blink and rub the gunk from your eyes and set the kettle on the stove, shaky and muddled in dream sap, waiting for nothing, perhaps, but just a robust feeling to begin, but it never does, but you are too old to recall the precise way it would, then, but, oh well, there you are. Religious moments and self-preservation’s momentum be damned, you are set to tasks and more tasks. Stun. You’re it.