Tick tock goes the clock on the upturned wine crate that serves as my bedside table. Reaching into the tender clean sheets, toes curl at the thought of sleep. The books are piled in a crumpled heap, waiting to be read. Dust lurks in the space where objects end, creeping around my room. Hiding beneath a solace of blankets, hear the purr of passing cars. So soft the evening gloom.
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