I made a mistake of thinking I could trust that stupid lamp.
Or maybe the window was to blame. It had been broken for weeks after all. I had been awake at first, and the shapes of the night birds settled on the arms of the tree and the darkness swallowed me. I felt no physical form around my spirit as I drifted over the restless planes of grids and zooming numbers.
In my grandma’s flat in Hong Kong, my eldest uncle played her a choir song called “Oblivion” over and over again. I had no idea why. Half asleep, she nodded and he clicked on to the next track.
Heat itself slunk in with a sour ponderous tread, the fan stumbled around the ceiling like an exhausted trapped fly.
In the distance, an ice cream van changed owners so fast we could never make out who was driving.
And by the time I awoke again, it was too late. Again.
She had entered the next house along. It was a different world. They had electricity, and the patience to scheme. Their lantern did not give out from the gust of tearaway air from the fist-sized crack in the glass, rattling in a rotting frame.
Even in my dream, I could see a bold, bright figure at the other window facing inwards, by the table. Cloaked, blood-red, in a fountain of light.
Written on 17/02/2018