I must admit I feel … out of sorts.
Weeks have gone by. No. Years.
(there is a nagging fear it could be decades)
Time moves at a peculiar pace. I sense it (time) contains holes, like runs in stockings. The wind whistles through.
Description of my current state:
Pieces of myself have been blown apart and spread like dandelion seeds, drifting off in various realities.
I know who I am, but not what I am…