the horrible singing in my fog-grogggy dream head is intimate and close-loud but is only the alarms bad song and too late too soon anxiety has crawled out its cave to cook up a hot-knot meal from nothing and it devours it and it savours it with hot sauce on its sticky claws deep down at the breakfast bar in my early morning animal gut till i fight it with logic and reason and evidence into such space orbit that i'm left wondering these are my hands? and where ? why ? ouch ! and what ?