In deep states of consciousness, buried between periods of cycles. I had become a tool of psychological construct. 

Where weight was of nothing—if it could be anything—in fact nothing at all. 

Distant light from the freeway painted part of the horizon. Its glow encompassed between thick fog night had formed itself into a reflection of the one staring at it. The only person alive.

- - -

I stared at myself staring at myself. 

Whatever I was, and a low frequency rhythmic hum.

- - -

The freeway became a fleeting memory as the window I was so fixated upon turned into the top floor, peering down to the level below, all of which felt distant and too close.

I had floated between walls of the house, bouncing around the interior that so harshly, tossed every which way.

Mercifully, I was back between sheets so cool much like warm embraces.

Disfigured undulations of faces on the wall, ones of familiarity, mocked the omnipresent being of what I was. Their gaping holes where mouths once were groaned.

.

.

.

‘There is a hum.’