Metal on metal on metal. And sheets. And noise, an itchy noise. And an amputated hand grip on my knee. Anonymous love and care and boredom. More metal. The hand is metal. My eyes, lips, ear lobes.
A fan presses air in the background. Killing itself. For nothing. It will clank to its death and no-one will offer finger comfort. The sky a gravestone in its mass grave. With all the other cars.
Rebirth...either a monster or a storm. Nothing good can come of a metal revolution.
What if Jesus was wrong?
“Darling. Poppet. My love. Dearie. Duck. Sweet-Pea. Sausage. Mate. Mate. Mate. Poppet. My love. Chair. Darling. Nurse! Oh, my love. Oh, poppet. Oh, dear. Oh, sausage.”
and the fan breathes. It clunks, then breathes. It saw me.