I'm sitting in a blank room,
Where the floor looks like a checkerboard.
Tiles dividing grime and peeling wallpaper,
My head is sore.
I close my eyes, and all I see is coloured lights.
Dashing lines, passing time,
Hands making drastic signs.
And that's it really,
One door and one window.
With beads of condensation stuck on the panes of glass in limbo,
You'd surely think so.
I compare myself to these drops,
Cutting through a layer of steam to rest on the windowsill and stop.

Gather in a pool, and reflect the dim light-bulb.
The pale, yellow glow reflected back in the dead of nightfall.
Everything in its rightful place,
No balance without counterbalance.
No good without malice, of course,
This room might not exist.
The glass may never clear.
The lock may never click.
Open. Shhh,
The voices want to speak.
Take a rest.
The floor's too cold to go to sleep.

I could open the door if I really wanted to.
If I willed it with all my force, i'm sure I could go through.
I haven't done it yet.
I haven't touched the handle,
The way that I see it, the question's unanswered.
Before I try, it's both locked and unlocked.
Maybe in my dreams I travel round the block,
Back in time to rejoin my sleeping unconcience.
The room could be an illusion i've been freed from long since.

As I may have mentioned,
I have no idea how long i've been here.
The lightbulb stays on.
The glass is frosted, never clear.
It always seems like night,
I count the minutes mentally.
Making cuts in the wall, it'll be full of marks eventually.
The longer I stare the more the lines make patterns.
The wall is my skyful of stars,
Drawing constellations.
Erratic.
It makes words and symbols, and places i've never been.
Spaces never explored and faces i've never seen.

I see these places in my dreams,
It's a depressing sub-reality, expanding into infinity.
And there I am, asleep in every single room.
The black and white floors,
The grime on the walls,
And the marks that I carved, I assume.
I drift off the floor, ascend to the ceiling.
The window pane dripping, I see myself sleeping.
A glass on the floor just within arm's reach.
Where is this place?
A stitch in existence?
A place on the brink of time's own resistance?
Wait.
A voice in my mind.
"Wake up, there's a glass of water by your side."