Lletres: Pulp. Masters Of The Universe. Goodnight.

"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz" Now it's coming to the end of the evening. The time when
the celing sways and objects jerk out of place. Your eyelids heavy, you
make your way down the yellow streets past rows and tows of houses;
curtains drawn tight against the cold night air. To a flight of starts
which lead to a room where a bed is waiting for you to lie down - perhaps
alone, perhaps not - and go to sleep again. They wait alone in unused
rooms they sit and they remember. Oh please remember. So you lie on your
back in the dark and hear the blood rushing in your ears and the soft
"tick, tick, tick" of your watch against the matress spraing, patterns
merge behind your eyes, purple and green glowing gently and all is soft

with rfurry darkness. You yawn once, turn on your side and fall to sleep
again. They wait alone. They batched your eyes when nights were cold.
Remember oh please remember there's something you've forgotten. When you
awake later that night the bedroom was cold and you were along. Alone and
afriad of the dark, watching, waiting, as you lie on your back, naked
beneath the cold sheets; not dead just sleeping. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.