cold mountain (7)

Moth-eaten day: can’t remember waking, don’t recall falling asleep. This aching in my head. The chimes on the door woke me, delicate warning. Who’s there? Evening, the shrieking of the birds in the bamboo muffled by glass and cloth. Called it a window but it obscures everything. What I see in dreams won’t last the night, so I dream during the day.

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