Off-white is now white. Everything just a little brighter. The names of colours come slowly, now. The brown of your leather chair. An island. The honey of your hardwood floor. Slowly rotating. The yellow from the bulb above your head. Divine light. Words wiggle, vibrating madly, before breaking free, jumping from the page, and easily overtaking your crawling brain. You don't understand them. Can't concentrate. Numb. You stare at the floor past your book. Stare through the planks of hardwood to the plywood beneath that. And beyond. That, or you're staring just one millimetre in front of you - you can't tell.
Your attention loiters, stands around, idling. There is no past. There is no future. There is only the present, boiled down, and brought to this exact instant. And it moves, ever fleeting. Oily bubbles blown from a child's bubble wand, popping on the floor. Smoke rings blown from the lips of a drunk, dissipating in air. Blown. Like your mind. Shadows mingle high up in the corners of the room, whispering to one another, conspiring. Smudges on the window come together to form images of something greater. You find the corner of the bookcase intensely fascinating.
Coffee growing cold, and tomorrow growing ever closer. Sleep comes like smoke from a cigaret left smouldering in the ashtray. There is no choice - it just comes. The fire burns, and what is left is ash. You, curled in your bed, cocooned in a mess of duvets, twitching to the rhythm of your unconscious. Yes, sleep comes, and it is deep. You walk through a world every bit as rich as the one you just left; a whirlwind of words, a tangle of colour. Off-white is now white. Everything just a little brighter.
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