The fan makes noises.
The time between awake and asleep, it comes after and before.
This time is before. Sleep is coming.
The fan is singing. I'm at that point. The fan is music. Faraway radio under-toned, under the buzz. I can't hear the words, I don't know the tune. I listen for it. It's there, but not quite.
My eyes are closed. Sleep is coming.
Scenarios playing, visions. I drop out of one, a logical dead end, into the next.
Her voice calls me. A balloon bumps my head: It's time to get up.
Okay, I'm up, shit-showered before I lay down, before I laid my body down with the fan blowing.
It's birthday dinner: mine; tonight. I suppose there might even be balloons.