Stroke

I wake. Short sentence. No meaning. Words come from nowhere and go into nowhere else. More souffle than the muffin I was.

Something missing.

Some whole lots of somethings are gone.

I watch closely for them, but they don’t come back.

Just an expanse in front. Like being three inches away from whipped cream. I want to taste it. I stretch out. Can’t reach. Too far to be three inches. The thought of inch slips from me like a wet tomato seed.

Language.

Coming, going, coming, going.

Mesmerised with...