The tick of hands consumes me,
boring deep and taking root.
The air presses like dead weight around me
and my eyes protest in fatigue.
The silence is unnerving,
broken only by the scratching of wood.
Words dance like mischievious devils before my eyes,
darting this way and that,
colliding and joining together.
Thoughts slow gradually
as with a gentle downward stream,
pooling steadily on level ground.
Time itself appears to slow,
movements drawn and exaggerated.
I gasp for fresh breath
but find none.
The tick of hands consumes me . . .
Until it ends.