My lists are growing longer, like my hair and fingernails and days.
At night, I can hear whales outside of my window, groaning to each
other about one thing or another with such sadness in their voice that
can only be professed at 2 in the morning, just before I fall asleep and
dream, lucidly, that I cannot wake up. My blankets become shackles,
my bed becomes a holding cell, my room is an unbearable producer
of heat and anguish, and I am stuck. Vaguely, I hear the whales through
a veil of imagined sleep and watery, frightening dreams.
I can never tell if my eyes are open, or if they're seeing anything at all.