My Right Eye Watches the World through a Scratched Lens

A spectral cold, like thoughts of deep space. Like memories of snow. Walking to work, down Western Road, past the clock tower and the newsagents, and everything feeling frozen. No, not frozen really. Near enough to be reminded of things freezing though.
I could imagine stars hanging in the petrified air.
The sea looked unstable, as if it might shift and pulse, change itself into another geometry entirely. Looked like a lion with the colourings of a wolf. A bruised sky above the curve of the France-near horizon. i could not imagine boats sailing on that sea.
Shifty untrustworthy water.
The lenses of my glasses continue to deteriorate. The right lens is the worst, a fog of tiny miniscule scratches obscure everything I try to see. I don't know where the scratches came from. I imagine the claws of a miniature cat, scrabbling against glass, or some spectacle of a virus contracted from an attic full of old belongings.
No antibiotics for this pane though, except perhaps for an overdue eye-test.
Catch the bus back home tonight with a spare bus ticket that Em gave me. Sat cross legged on my bed thinking about Christmas and painting and sleep. Yellow light of my room. I need a cup of tea. I see a sheep skull next to the stereo, and on the other side of the stereo, a can of deodorant.
The fire alarm has gone off.
Something must be burning in the kitchen.