indigestion

It’s the early hours of the morning and you’re hunched over with your elbows on your bony knees, trying to swallow the acid you’ve just belched in your sleep, still half drunk, fully dressed, exhausted with it all. Soft lights, blue and red, puddle into the shadows from the TV and the stereo, the router, the phone charger, all these beams and waves and radiation . The world outside is silent but for an occasional gust of wind playing an impromptu wobble board on the tatty For Sale sign next door. Everyone’s asleep or dead or too wrecked to move, just you, with it all coming horribly into focus, all the things you want to flee from. It’s so easy to see the allure of the hole in the looming hedges, the urge to break out and run, however briefly in that night beyond the walls, where you’ll die at least in some more exotic meadow in the grip of some unimagined predator, not here, anywhere but here.

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