the shades are open and what moonlight there is shines like the skin of a ghost on the wall.

the air from the fan blows so that the blue on the map on the wall waves..

a moth with it's dirty blown-glass wings, flapping in slow motion the size of kites,

flies through the room over the moonlit ocean, towards the unlit lightbulb up on the ceiling.

it's tongue, as large as mine, runs against the sides of it's mouth.

it's eyes, wet with ink, scan the room like a lighthouse smile.

I'm in my bed. I can feel my feet my legs my hands, but I can't move or speak.