the wind wails through the cottage window, slipping through the tiny gaps that haven’t yet been plastered over with glue. around me, the chill seeps in, the fireplace too weakly lit to do much good.
under the wind, the fire dies down a little more; i place a screen in front of it, hoping to block the worst of the wind. it works, kind of, and i return to the vigil in front of the window. even now, i can feel reality’s grasp getting more tenuous, and i’m pulled back into my thoughts.
the grounding ritual doesn’t work now, like it used to. it takes more; more intricacy, more planning, more items. more is less, and there’s less patches of reality now. before i’m even really aware of it, the windows shatter inwards – strong wind on brittle frozen glass, and with it goes the last of reality.
imagination takes over.