Horizontal body with face sunk half into the pillow, one nostril kept from breathing. If eyes were open, the futon would stand on a carpet wall. Above my head the curtain cloaks the light back, as though keeping out the room if it were cold, except it is hot, employing two fans and their comforting drone. But eyes are not open. Sight belongs to the blossoming green and black in fractals and geometrics as long as I ignore the dark physical red of my eyelids against the light against the curtains against the room that is not cold.
Unignored, the burgundy of non-vision is broken by a flit of darker darkness across my left eye. I flinch. It’s the raven. Poe’s raven: harbinger of death, just flew across my eyes. It’s claws sank into my arm and pecked at my lashes. Jolting, I surge electrically awake, extra heart pounding, the static surely raising my hair, tingles of adrenaline. Where is the raven? Why did it come?
This is awake, a state not wanted. I fear for the omen’s effects on those I love.