Outside the wind roars in the trees, the erratic tap of stiff branches loud against the iron roof. I know that the rain is coming, my nose smells it in the cold air, the damp edge that slides under the doors and up under the glass windows. This old lockwood house bangs reassuringly, creaking and sagging as the wood contracts and expands, like a living, breathing being. The first drops begin to fall, their tiny pings reverberating across the roof as hundreds more join in. I close my eyes as the cacophony washes over me, and smile as I feel sleep start his slow creep down over my face.
Dreams flicker past in the early morning, the space where breath is warm and slow, movements languid, closed eyes hazy. My thoughts are spirals of smoke, dreams and colours from moments before disappearing, like water running into sand, irretrievable from the unconscious. Hunger bites gently at my stomach, my bladder nags quietly, but my eyes are too heavy with fatigue to answer. I roll over, face following the curve of my arm and then I am gone again, slipping softly below the down layers of consciousness, settling heavy at the dark bottom.