Staring at the ceiling fan. Spinning slow, spinning round. Dust is floating in the air. Dust is landing on the ground. I can feel it in my wrists. I can feel it in the floor. Something shifting in the dark. Something tapping at the door. It’s coming. I don’t know what it is. It’s coming. It’s coming. It’s coming. I don’t know what it means. But it’s coming. It’s coming. The clock is ticking on the wall. Four AM, then four-O-five. I am sitting on the bed. Just to check if I'm alive. No one’s calling on the phone. No one’s walking on the street. But the air is getting thick. And the shadow starts to creep. It’s coming. I don’t know what it is. It’s coming. It’s coming. It’s coming. I don’t know what it means. But it’s coming. It’s coming.
