The days are unbelievable

The days are unbelievable messes. They never start. They are starting all the time, staggered for my troubles. I wont know which place I am waking up in out of them all, at the metal desk, under the table, wrapped in a cocoon on the bathroom floor. By the time I have asserted a context I am always at my desk with cold hands. It will never be perfect, but I want to be present when it happens. To be in that one place, days from now, I place myself in my toes, the sheets are still cold through my nails, the dew is cold through the spots bared through to my flesh and the sheets are stiffly rough on the scraps of skin that are not horned over and impenetrable, I feel their touch, each toe is warm where it connects back to my feet even in the stillness of the livid blood, I find a moment sealed away and stopped, I am in my fingertips and feel the singular evacuating pain through my fingernails from stored cold underneath the pillows. The cold confluence of my blood, each bit of me, pools in my chest, all beneath my skin. I lay and visualise myself walking in the white sun. Out there could be anywhere. Outside my skin is an omnipresent texture of fabric. I feel its incremental identity shift and slide over my skin when I adjust my body.