The membrane between wake and sleep thins

like morning fog dissolving.

Logic crumbles like wet sand

between restless fingers.

Your bedroom wall breathes.

The clock's red digits swim

through darkness, morphing

into schools of luminous fish.

Thoughts, once caged behind bone,

slip free through your ears—

whispered secrets taking shape,

dancing like smoke in still air.

A train whistles through the night,

metal wheels grinding reality.

Your body jerks, heart stumbling—

phantom tickets clutched in phantom hands.

The armchair holds you hostage,

its fabric growing roots into your skin.

Your private theater plays on:

dreams performing without script,

memories tangling with desires,

while you—the captive audience—

float between worlds,

unable to choose either shore.