I cannot sleep.
I have been awake — I am keeping track, you see, because I can do nothing else — for thirteen days now. Thirteen days, twelve hours, eleven minutes.
I am never alone, now. My consciousness is a beacon for something from beyond the world that we know, tiny presences that chirrup and wheel in the harsh and metallic sunlight. They are the forerunners: something much larger is coming for me. I can feel it; lately the squeals and clicks of the wheeling pinpricks are taking on the structure of a language. I am learning their tongue, and it is horrible.
Have they always been here, or are they but late arrived? Now they are everywhere, filling the trees, swirling and sparking beneath the drains, singing outside doors and windows.
They are getting louder.
I am so, so tired, so weak and thin-stretched, no more solid than they are, but I am close. I am so close to understanding what they are saying, I am so close to knowing what is coming. If I can hold out for just a little longer… Just a little longer… If I can hold out…
They are so beautiful! Their song is beauty!