The space between sleep and awareness is occupied. I've been told. Without cite seen by the family dentist. And questioned about. Roundly off heard and put. My eyes are telling him tube in mouth. She's pinching her buck. As not to take me to the physician. Who will know less. About who's in my mind. Smashing out the windows.
Coming in through. Walls like antenna arrays hearing back blips of noise. Into shapes I should know. Or at least recognize. As shadows beneath cloud tops making hand signs. But edge on even letters. Look like the spaces between teeth and I can't help cringing. At the pop of skin. The blunt of bone hammering. Through under that pressure.
Apnea is the medical term for. Money spent and manufactured worry. On her face. Knit up tightly. Beams hilarious off of make up applied thick. Despite a bowl of star shine upended. Down my throat. But he's not. Over weight. Have you thought about a sleep. Studied questions for known answers. No. The taste of blood is soothing.
I'm listening to the pick. And split. Of gum and closing my eyes to bathe better. In the light. Headiness of lamps illuminating. The rooms in the farthest knots of my mind. And over joyed to be able to see the rest of my body and feel. The fireplace of my mouth radiate. Under supervision. The last time I slept. God tried to push me out of my skin. Like garlic through a press.
You know they say. They who are. I saw it on television once. And they had all of these. Xeroxes of diplomas. That if your body falls asleep before your brain. You'll feel trapped. I thought that's what happened when you die. But they say. Vice and verse. Because it doesn't matter. If you don't ever really know. The feeling's acquaintance.
The family dentist agreed. With the first part and. Washed his hands. Again. You should definitely see a specialist. At some point. It sounds normal. I've had people explain that they can't move. At night he should try. To sleep sitting up and see. If it improves at all. As long as it isn't an everyday occurrence I can't imagine. The harm.
Fluorine tastes so warm. I have no attention span. For the diagnostic sparring between them with so few. Points of authority in the doubled heads. And seconds of good sleep beyond spare. I think I slipped from the vice again and only. Just I could feel the weight descending like a forty ton tire. To my shell. Empty lungs can't scream.
Very well. I did. The tube clenched. The dentist pat my sleeping chin. Until I woke and let go. And rinsed. I wonder sometimes. If the hands holding me down in the eve. While things not of day. Pour death into my throat. Like candle wax to surgical tubing. Could be convinced to visit her someday. When no one's around to wake her.
Are you ready to leave. No. But I tell her yes. You should go home and get some rest. I already did. But I tell her yes. We're not going to the physician or anywhere. Else where the cross hatch teflon threads of night's corpse zipper bag cannot reach. And dread pools linger. Pnuemoniac puddles constricting the hours. Until my mind and body race. For unconsciousness.
