Sometimes all I want is to be alone.
In a space for me. In a room. Quiet.
So that my thoughts can uncrumple and unfold and unravel, crawl out of my brain, out the window into some wild dead forest where all tired things can lie down in the leaves and rest.
So that that there is me. And no one. And no thoughts. And nothing.
And I will sleep. A long deep sleep filled with empty corridors and great big empty ballrooms filled with filtered dusty light. A long deep sleep of empty spaces.
And after a long, long time (perhaps years), I will call them back to crawl inside my head. They will be old and fragile and grey and papery like washed out wallpaper and they wont jostle so much in my head any more.