things move around

Last night, temporarily alone with just the groan of the grapes tolling through my bones, I sat down at a computer and for what I am told was a half hour or so lost control of my mind. Lubricated by a large Clamato caesar, I envisaged reality as a tumble-dryer full of sheets and shorts, in which I was a mislaid five-dollar note being tossed and pummelled, ruffled and rolled. Rising, only to fall again, only to rise again, within the ructions of linen, I slipped in and out of self-awareness, and finally sank utterly into a soft, warm capsule, my ears buffeted by a whooshing, muffled womb-noise.