Cold sweat slipping down my back, a stifled scream as I bolt upwards, reaching for the shadows.
Maybe preacher man should exorcise these demons, maybe these thoughts could be tamed by a fuck.
But for now there is an empty bed, unmade, unwashed, springs sticking up like raw diamond.
Eyes ablaze searching for comfort, or movement. Or just hope.
I lay back and feel the perspiration sink into the fabric and watch the ceiling bend.