Dark.
Quiet, quite.
The fan blows cool air on my skin.
Cats yowl nearby, the shuffling of cat litter
Makes sounds like oceans waves,
or so thought Mr Crick.

This is the witching hour.
310 and the mind starts to wonder,
Screens flicker, thoughts bicker.
314 and other transcendental numbers,
Infinites and clocks and super-tasks.
315 and the demons rise from the red room
Existing only in minds and movies.

Surely this is nearing the time that
I last rose from slumber
All those nights ago and begged for forgiveness
Metres from sleeping bodies?
Did I see it then?
Do I trust them?

I wonder still.
The chromosome lights
Flash like neon signs
Briefly spelling out notes
With no context or chronology.
Cats, Pi, oceans, light, ***, but only in passing.
Every seven seconds is surely impossible.
Pink elephants she told me not to think about.

So random. No context.
Nonsense without meter or rhyme.
Is it the point? Maybe.
It doesn't to anybody except me.
And when I die I will take all meaning
And leave none
For you will have to make your own
Like everybody else.
Like I did.

Are we alone?