A dog howling outside. A reflection of a clock light in a mirror. Not my dog.
Don’t come down to the obvious like writing this, I tell myself. My face itches. This bedroom is mine.
you have my dear.
Well, give it back) Thinking of sleeping in dirty sheets. An armchair sits itself in a corner, likely this night isn’t mine, although I’m lonely in it. The electric clock whirling. I hickup vomit and swallow it.