Eyes closed, on my back, losing touch with my position in space. Voices passing outside the door, in the hall. Someone pushing a cart. Someone running water. Can’t feel my hands, can’t move my feet. Mind is awake. I can see behind my eyes, feel the edges, like moving inside a cave, no light.
I am dying inside in small ways, cells sloughing off, like a tree losing its leaves, changing color, still standing after it’s died.
I’m getting ready to set up my space in the garage and write a story, at last. I’m facing the wall under the stairs, surrounding myself with music and scents, clipping herbs and animal parts, making sparks in the dark for winter time.