I lie here alone between starched white sheets. This bed is not my own. Flint black darkness holds the molten soul of me. Periodicaly a car will pass the window, and I will think of * again. It is cold. I am cold. The expansion of crossbeams create a symphony in the silence. Photographic and wet are the memories. Sepia toned with Regret Washing over me. In this basin I float unbreathing. I am alone and I know that it is correct. I am in line. Words create an avalanche in the silent room. Pangs of sorrow grow hollow in my bones. I am cold. Trails. Thought patterns electrical as I spin. Among starched sheets among stars I reel. Reaching out....I know not what for. I feel it. spider building web upon my soul and if I move I will disrupt it. About me are the whitewashed walls beyond that are the mountains, tall and smothered in fog.