every time i wake up the world gets a little stranger.

Yesterday, when i walked into the living room it was full of feathers, multicoloured feathers, long and short, patterned, shiny, vibrant, narrow, curled. I didn't know what to do with them, there were hundreds, maybe more than a thousand, so i left them. i thought maybe they'd vanish of their own accord after i'd slept again, but today they were still there. Today they were still there, and there was a black limosine crashed into the postbox outside the house. Crashed so hard the metal was buckled up and into the postbox, fucked. Also today, all the bulbs in the house had warped, like they'd been melted and twisted, weird clawing abstract shapes. My boss still has claws instead of fingernails, that happened about three weeks ago. The lightbulbs are functional, but the light is less even, they cast spook shadows.

The first thing was when i was nine and i turned the tv on and saw static, but instead of the normal fuzz noise, the tv seemed to be singing. My dad showed no sign of hearing the singing, nor seeing the static, just normal tv. i pretended it was just normal tv to me, too. i would sit and watch snowstorms, while this voice sang oddly dicordant opera, and wondered if i should be in an asylum. other things. the birdhouse became a birdcastle. One day the pond was full of tiny gold and silver frogs. My shoes turned to perfect origami replicas of themselves. Once there was a snake skeleton in my underwear drawer, its delicate bones entangled with my sheerest black tights.

Every time i wake up the world gets a little stranger, and i've searched and searched for an explanation but i don't know where to start. For weeks i tried to stay awake, to keep my eyes open and see these things happen, stalking the house waiting for the oven to start rusting or the sofa to bloom with roses. But i always found myself waking up in bed just as usual, to the sound of my alarm clock dancing. So this doesn't have a resolution. I was afraid. Once, my car started to drive itself, fast. Once I woke to thick clouds of smoke and my upholstory on fire. I don't know if this is real, I don't know whether I'm going to be in mortal danger the next time I open my eyes. But the feathers are a wail of colour, and soft as skin; the postbox looks happier, crushed.

When I dream I dream of flat beige unspace, and i know that we are all the heat and light there is and I will taste it whether it burns me to death or not.