recorded
you find yourself in a hallway. it is your hallway, mostly. water has begun to come in under the doors. it is clear, and cold without being unfriendly, and it makes no sound. it does not arrive from any direction; it is simply more of it than there was a moment before.
you watch it cross your ankle. you watch a letter you cannot read float once around the leg of the hall table. somewhere, perhaps in the kitchen, the surface meets the underside of a chair. the light through the water is the light of a place that has always been underwater and is only now letting you see. you do not move. you understand that moving would be the wrong instinct.
the water reaches the small of your back. you are not drowning. there is nothing to drown. there is only the slow filling, the gentle changing of a house into a sea. somewhere outside, a river recognises the house and arrives, late, as if invited.
recorded on waking · undated