Ticking

Something ticks and screams.

She now has trouble standing for long periods of time. A weird feeling pierces her gut, her eyes have trouble focusing, and everything slows down and breathes - in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out.

The grounds pulses.
                  She feels disembodied.
                                       She has trouble formulating words.

The muscles along the sides of her abdomen stretch and ache and she has trouble stopping herself hunch and curl and be pulled to ground.

She's lost two kilos in a month and a half. A combination of stress and an unidentified virus. 

Something ticks and screams.

'Sit down! Sit down! Sit down!'

A Dream That Stuck

I had about a thousand dreams last night.

But one:

I was on a tour of a madhouse called The Wizard of Oz. My tour guide was male, stretched and lanky, wore a blue top hat, and sang absolutely everything. He escorted me up a flight of curly stairs and welcomed me into the room known as Hairy Mountain. There was nothing in the room to indicate why it was called Hairy Mountain. There were lounge chairs in a couple of the corners, books bursting from haphazardly organized bookcases, and a completely idle mini train-set. The feature of the train-set was a wooden coffin - unburied, completely plain, but on the crest of sweeping fields surrounding the track like a star on top of a Christmas tree.

I cannot remember the lyrics. I cannot remember the melody. But everyone who lived within the Wizard of Oz knew it and knew it so well it was as though it was the house anthem.