There is a rhythm to this room, and it is beating me to death.
The quick hand of the clock next to the bed ticks like a mechanical mosquito,
with an inhuman regularity that I find both vulgar and annoying.
The slow drip of the sink is, for a moment, a relief,
until the two weave themselves together
and stagger through my ears in arrhythmic glory,
like a drunk with a twisted ankle.

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