The grasp

It's here. As I try to enter the realm of sleep, the thoughts run, start, stop, repeat, like a broken record.

I'm still thinking it. Feeling it. Thinking. Feeling.

How long more? How's the scenery from the other side of the gate? I don't know how to deal with it, in a mind unafflicted by dementia or ECT. Neither will that firm, prolonged grasp loosen its hold.



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