Draft 29

[25/05/17]
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1) draft - скетч, набросок, проба видения
2) draft - поток воздуха, сквозняк
3) draft - степень выдержки, возможности чего-то совладать с чем-либо
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There is a draft. A timid wind through the hole of the planked window. That tiny, not even a shred of daylight winks through there. Yet, the draft.
 
The room is blind. As my sight. The only action that exists – is thinking. Sometimes I cross my arms and legs, a drifting mummy in its chamber of impaled night. A lost shape without time or season, put to slumber – freezing any lucid motion. Yet, the draft.

I tried placing my fingers in the hole, I did. One after another, stubbornly – all bitten off now, down to each phalanx. Now I had no grip to try to get the planks off the window.
 
Kicked them also. Willed to force them open. There were rusty thorns all over, now I cannot stand.
 
Can’t reach those thorns – now resting in my feet – with teeth. I’d try, but lost the fronts while the latest ruined run to sate the hunger. The bacon perfumed dumpling beaconed out to be a stiffened clay. I was so famished that I swallowed a piece – to the sound of my teeth corroding rapidly, some bony cracks then avalanching down the throat, scratching out the blood clots topping.
 
Now, having not eaten for more than a time a human being may hold its… being… my stomach is digesting clay, the pebbles of my teeth and darkness, which I swallowed more than breaths since the beginning of my stray within this chamber.

If only there were no draft, I’ll choke on moldy abstinence of air. The hole, with biting hollowness behind it, is my torture. With a sound of ooze the draft bellies through there, lashes back and forth my parchment skin, as I suck on my festering phalanx.
   
My eardrums are broken. Volume level – painfully obese. The oozing draft resounds like if there’s a raging mountain river crushing through my nostrils.
 
Hairs – long and dirty. Sticky wires – weight more than my body of a riven match. I smell ammonia and serum. If this draft brings fire, I’d be lit – a power cable to the dormant chamber, whereto my claymore mind collapsed.
 
The time I still could stand, I checked the walls. Of hanging cloths – heavy linen from the highest ups to lowest bottoms, straining down from temples, scratching ankles. Lost the count, how many linen were there. Either infinite or all my motions have been looped. A loop – stuck in a second to the melody developed.
 
Now, what am I?
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A draft to bear a maelstrom,
on the 29th day of the moon.