John laid painfully awake in his bed and tried so hard to shut his eyes. His bottom lids acted as bouncy rubber—top lids plummeted his veiny eyes into darkness only for an instant before hitting the bottom trampolines that propelled his Insomnia. He sat upright in mental wrenching, letting his stomach crinkle like the cloth of his brain being wrung.
His tired eyes drifted out the window and caught the trees movement. John imagined that they spoke a rare language—a tongue that had expired when the heavy book of history shut, severed, and placed its record on pages long since desintegrated by the elements of time.
SMASH ! The window shattered. John’s alarmed senses snapped turtle, he instinctively hid under the blanket’s soft shell and waited for whatever had come to rip off the sheets and kill him.
Finally popping his head out from his sheet shelled sanctuary he saw a helicopter of branches spinning like rope whips quietly above him.