Here comes the sun.

If thumbs could chisel the texture of a coma, what direction would the grain point? How would a photograph paint the hues of unconscious dreaming? The heart pumps slow, methodically, trudging through heavy and listless blood. A flannel-clad chest rises. and falls. rises. and falls. rises. and falls. Smooth silks of sleep rub against time, and the ticking of clock hands makes nonoise atall.

Hello, dreamer.

Comfort laces a pinky around comatose. Navy promises safety, closed doors make vows to undisturbed slumber. The quiet is so much, so much, so much, enough. Perhaps hands hold each other in hopes for dawn, but the sleeper remains. Fires only last until embers die out, and she ran out of wood to add to the flame. Sleep, rest, nothingness, unconscious revelry. Maybe the real world must wait, but the dreamer has forgotten all about it by now. Survival makes for a strange single-mindedness.

Hello, sleeper.

Morning seeps through the window cracks, making for a slow awakening. The sunlight will call when he's ready; his fingers will glow through the slats and pull into consciousness. Eyelids may squint in slight rebellion of what is to come. Forefingers may twitch with begging. Please don't make me face the day again. Only just a while longer. I'm not ready to be strong again. But evidence of a mid-summer's night slowly fades. Milky yellow at the window softly sings. The call beckons, but not just yet. Only over hours will the cadence begin, in silhouettes and far away chords. Jarring is for another time. It's time for morning to glide in on approach.

Awake, oh sleeper.

Awake.

Awake....