Arrowhead

The blinds weren’t closed, but the room stayed dim.
A low frequency swam behind the socket.
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth until my jaw clicked.
Somewhere a compressor kicked in.
Not mine.
I ran a hand across my chest.
Dry.
There was a faint scent of detergent and something older.
I stepped out of my shoes but didn’t move.
The carpet gave no feedback.
My throat hurt from not speaking.
Not silence — just backlog.
The machine clicked once, then again.
Neither sound ... read more

I dozed off listening and dreamed I was in the cover art room and had been stabbed with a screwdriver. I remained strangely calm, gazing at the lights of the buildings.