You lay in your bed, eyes wide. You are not dreaming. But you are not awake—too bleary eyed and sleep drunk to really be considered conscious at all.

You curl the duvet under your chin and blink as shadows run their fingers across your wall, crawling ever closer towards you in your bed.

You do not know what kind of night this is, but it is not a nice one—not a night that sits soft on your tongue and melts down your throat—no, it is the kind of night that just sits...

Waits... And waits...

Time slips away from you, a lover leaving your bed—to brush like silk over your leg, the soft inside of your thigh. It lengthens like the fray of a string, unwinding before your eyes.