My unconscious mind feels your lips on my hair before the feeling is surpassed by a rotting vision rather more wounding than this one—visions, I suppose—of a sickness of my mother’s relapsed. Or is it my own? I can’t recall hers having looked like this, though these dark, liquid memories would know better than I. Etched upon my eyelids and burned there until they open is the final act of the parable: my mother’s skull—or mine.
And then there is dusky light and the sounds of built space or early morning space-building. 06:43. Berlin.
With the unslept hours of a familiar aloneness, I breath in lightness and warmth and feel the edges of my mouth quiver until I remember why I’ve woken. I understand, I think to myself, to the dreams that strange beds provoke, you win. My fingers withdraw and my head lifts indifferently to gaze at a reflection of cracked, red irises wet with exertion. At night, in my unconscious hours, this indifference dissipates into a sensible terror. This is when the scarring from those normal years surfaces, and when the threads of razed pink lines or veins or vines entwine with eyes split open in their sleeping.