KRIS
That musty smell.
Whatever world I bathed in faded up, enveloping me. I became aware of my arms – that they were attached to me, that I was something other than a floating head in the airy foam of a strange sleep; how gradual my bearings emerged. Wet. Stuck thinking I needed to shake off a dream, that I’d hear the lazy photons of cars whoosh past my body, the clackity-clack foot traffic of my upstairs neighbours, but the more I surfaced the more the dream became firm, real, even if it was palpably soft and shifting. Buzzing. Floating / not floating. Eyes opened, seeing nothing, blinking in the darkness, then primordial shapes developed, and the stars and gossamer of undreamt memories dissipated. Woke up in my T-shirt and running shorts, splayed out on the asphalt at Queen and Duffer
