Flickering Moods

Peiločja cleans herself on the corner of the bed as I lie supine typing this. I suppose typing this requires me to lie supine, actually, so my redundancy points its double jointed fingered stare at me and fills me with the icy knowledge that another evening is wilting. The air is dissolving from clarity into haze and soon the singularity of sleep will cast my present and my memory into pitch.

Peiločja lept away. Were I to summon the strength to look, she’d possibly now be curled on her chair, her bed, her blanket, her place of security where she purrs and kneads in the midst of the pitch and in the midst of the light equally. The flickering moods of my fickle circadian rhythm have no effect on her.

The dimming is almost complete and I shall pass into what Christian calls nightly death. This room is my membranal community and I shall shortly and for a brief time die within it. Peiločja will be the only living entity within its breathy, perforated walls. Or perhaps she will pass another way, as well.