waking up

rattling, crushing, coughing engines, sirens, drills. Diamond hard sunlight bleeding around the edges of the blind and slicing through the gap at its bottom like a molten blade. It hurt my eyes. Sick, the noise of it all breeding with the nausea lodged in the pit of my stomach to begin crawling up my throat to end in my mouth, but as much in my head like a tidemark. I would throw up cacophony, ropes of it braided into my own heaving. I would throw up the city, with its chunks of buildings and pavements, fragments of glass, handrails of buses, slurred and lurching pavement conversations - all that I had tried to swallow the night before, that had left me shipwrecked on this mattress amongst the din of awakening.