I swallow the cold coffee, and for a moment it just sits there, a weight beneath my throat, a slight fullness in my gut. I feel the bitter stuck to my tongue, the sea-sick drift of blood as it rushes to my stomach. I feel the distance between the act and the next grow as I hunch over these smudged plastic keys, certain of something I can't quite fathom. Some faith manifest in these bled rituals, some tomorrow written in coffee grounds conspiring in my emptied cup. Some knowledge that can not settle upon any single sense, settling instead for no sense at all.
I woke from a thin drizzled dreaming, moving from one set of stimuli to another. Moving from the wings to the stage. The world somehow had shifted on its feet, everything similar to the remembered architecture, some city dreamscape or movie trailer trick. Something left of the edit, some artifact of a lost world sitting on my dusty shelves. The drab assembly rushes in, all these names and failings assail until you name a savior. From stagecraft to deepest secret, this is how I learn not to fly. From sleep to certainty, this is how you drown the dreams inside.
I can feel the barbs left in my heart, the claw marks of something best left unimagined. I can feel the weight of this cage, cluttered up inside me. Cold hands and electric light, there is nothing here to tempt me. Old coffee and blurry eyes, there is no-one left to try. Heavy and slow, I manifest in this worn promise and this deft intent. I open my eyes and reach out, fingers brushing these old pearls and notions. I touch this world around me, believing only in vision and grasp. I hold the cup I emptied. I hold what ground I have. My life still small enough to get lost in the corners. My life still bright enough to find its way in the dark.