Blood soaked barrels roll down the cragged hills
Gathering speed and flattening all life  
in their path, until they run into the mouth of the sea.
And though you might hear their desperation  
shrieking madly across the sunburst sky,
do not pay it any mind.  Close your eyes;
and drift away in the thistles of Summer.

Angst sees a way out but it’s not one to be desired; a bleeding white light at the end of the tunnel. He pushes himself toward it, gasping for the air as he does so. “ This is it This time This time it’s it” ,rambles his wee head. Alisdair had told him before of these big mouths in the streets, but he had never believed such fancies until sure enough he fell in face first. Now he can see the end, he can see the key, and he can see the truth: that there was somewhere elsewhere. Somewhere you have to find but can never just pay a visit. 

He is not in the middle of some inter dimensional drift (although for logics sake you could believe so if it pleased you), he is as here as the words that here appear. It’s something else thats went elsewhere- his mind. You could be quick to label this a condition of his, or you could just as easily label him a condition of this “ drift”  if you like. Either way, he’s in his own little world I guess you’d say- well almost there.   

But as he pushes on through chocking, and growing weaker with exhaustion as he stares out into the white light, with the sweet hope and heat it promises, he thinks to himself just how much easier it would be to die again.

In my dreams there are screens playing dreams
And I sit with my eyes fixed open.
It's a pathetic paradox, and a very real problem.
I sit, now, before the same hollow blue light typing it out:
I dream before a screen, I wake before one and I live in one.
The good old eight hours has been eaten by a box set,
and we like to binge upon those boxes.
It's a pathetic circle, and a very real problem.  

In this screen there a dreams framed by screens.
I sit, now, with my eyes fixed open.
It's a pathetic paradox, and a very real problem.
Tonight I will dream by its hollow blue light, watching it too.
I talk through a screen, I listen to one and taste it too.  
The good old imagination's been eaten by a box set,
and we link to binge upon those boxes.
It's a pathetic circle and a very real problem.

Screen 1 ( The Sordid Sit-Com)

Ross and Rachel prepare a meal upon the floor;
The rest of the gang arrive and feed each other
with shaking hands. It all gets to much for the
director, and he gathers the knives and forks
his cast refused to use, and gently bleeds them.

( hahaha cries the canned laughter)

Dream 1 ( Mundane Madness)

I sit before a 20 foot laptop watching series 3
of a television show I have never and will ever enjoy.
There is nothing beside me, behind me, above me
but blinding white. And I sit fixated on my boredom
and the minutia of fictional lives. I reach out to ****

but fall down in laughter

It’s a celebration!
Balloons drift in the sky
with the quiet murmur
of a doctors wait room.  
Bent necks and fixed staring
eyes follow them faithfully.
It’s a celebration!
The skies completely cluttered.
It’s a celebration!

The over-kept yellow grass
itches my nose with change;
A new beginning? An end?
Or just an idea that'll deflate?
Without the skies distraction
We're free to tend our gardens,
To celebrate worldly wins,
and love our languishing mother.
"Here's to you Mother! ":

The last words the sky did mutter.

Fall, spinning into it;
the old dream wakes
the new memory
and the open eye
fools the open mind.
Sense is re-arranged;
sordid shapes penetrate,
and distort the backdrop.
Then the ringing black.
Followed by thunder and light.  

Then he opens his eyes