Lonesome Dark

A visitor came to me last night, a muscular digit, neutral, indeterminate, abruptly thrust at me, pressing, admonishing, coolly governing my face with no great pain and no great lingering gentleness. Perhaps my head had been lifted, it surely must have, though without my knowledge, it must have been, for once pressed seemed to fall back into rest, correctly so. But should I wake, knowingly wake, should I force open my eyes, knowingly apply an ear, ready my limbs, there is nothing at all. Nothing that stirs or breathes or hates, nothing to see or hear or fight, my room is vast and empty. I rolled back into the dark. 27th March 1997