Transmitter

Start picking up the signals when I should be falling asleep.
A wireless radio flooding the air I breathe with transmissions from a radio station lost in the confines of an internally collapsing factory, or perhaps a series of factories. A single industrial entity does not fully describe the labyrinthine feel of this internal geography, so, yes, a series of factories, a conspiracy of rust and machines and quarries and aluminium poisonings. It makes me think of the sea, a foamy untrustworthiness creeping in under a similarly untrustworthy night sky. The stars are in the tides and they cut like knives.
The only dream I remember from last night was being in the model shop down Western Road, looking for a lost room that had been there the night before. I didn't remember the dream till I passed by after finishing my Saturday shift.
Wake with a headache that worsens over the four hours at work. It drizzles all morning, and when I get home I collapse into bed, a strangely dehydrated and restless sleep. The headache has left me hollow, and I think the drizzle continues.
Transmitter still sending out those signals.