Lying motionless with the ubiquitous rolling cadence of a clock announcing each second, shallow breathing from beyond bleeds through between troughs of silence. With each attempt to concentrate on the present, the slope becomes steeper until I slip back into the viscous darkness.
Floating to the surface, the metronomic tapping fades in. Was it a second, 3,000, or 7,000 that passed? I realize the distant breaths are my own.
One eye opens stickily to an anemic yellow light filtering in from a cracked window near the ceiling. The other eye unwillingly complies. A dull pain envelopes my eyes, forcing me to squint while trying to focus. Grey dust particles drift down, becoming luminescent in the sun's path for a moment, then disappearing briefly behind the shadows cast by the bars along the window, reappearing until they melt into the oblivion of the dimness below.
My eyes slowly travel up toward the ceiling and follow another pack of invading particles. Where do they come from?
Another Sunday morning.