The Sweeping Insensitivity of the Still Life (For rude-not-ginger )
The rain beat senselessly on the roof above, like a child swinging away at a makeshift drum, a rythem beat out in uneven tempo on pots and pans and anything else within reach. The sound has a touch of pained frenzy to it, the clouds that had been hovering overhead threateningly for two days now being wrung forcefully empty by some great hand.
It's funny the things she thinks about as she lies awake, staring into blackness that has encompassed the ceiling above. The digital clock on her nightstand blinks a melancholy 2:16 am at her sleepless eyes. She rolls over with a grown and faces the window, watching the water spill down over the outside, blurring the outside world to the waking dream it had become.
2:17
Her clocks are the only things left that mark the days. But in small increments, seconds and minutes and even hours. Pieces that she can manage, perspective to slow the feel of creeping inevitability.
2:18
The rain pours on.
It's funny the things she thinks about as she lies awake, staring into blackness that has encompassed the ceiling above. The digital clock on her nightstand blinks a melancholy 2:16 am at her sleepless eyes. She rolls over with a grown and faces the window, watching the water spill down over the outside, blurring the outside world to the waking dream it had become.
2:17
Her clocks are the only things left that mark the days. But in small increments, seconds and minutes and even hours. Pieces that she can manage, perspective to slow the feel of creeping inevitability.
2:18
The rain pours on.