End up in bed or on the sofa and it’s later, maybe a day or week later and I haven’t moved an inch and I can’t crap either.
I black out. Just, ‘phoom’ and I’m out.
My head becomes a room. Grey walls. Dusty floorboards. Some rubbish. No breeze.
An apparition of an old woman swims into the room. Seems distorted by heat shimmer. It sits in a wicker chair. Black wicca chair. It’s phlegmatic hands begin to shake. They appear blurred with movement. Small stars grow in space.
A voice says, “You’re a miserable bastard. What’s the matter, constipated? Miserable bastard. Nothing changes with you does it? Nothing changes.”