Separate Reality Soporific

After work is done. And food and wine and talk. After the latest movements in art. A woodsy slumber; We find ourselves silent; pinned like butterflies. Hands out-scattered above our heads; limbs too far away; swirling a hole that yawns and threatens to swallow us whole. In time, the curtain edges will grow light, and all the uneasy intricate world will begin to rouse. 'Till then, in a Separate Reality, we slip into a deeply troubled sleep.