Awake, but only just. There is a ringing, a pungent noise, percussive. Light, strands and then a dim glow, a hint of sun. Cough syrup. Swimming in it, brain trying to clear a path through the muck towards consciousness. Ascending towards the summit, or maybe just floating to the surface. In any case, towards the light, and the noise.
Bearings grasped, limbs coordinated, ambling in to the wind. The ringing, the beeping, the audible gnat buzzing, buzzing, and then swatted. Silence again, drink it in and it washes across the mind, rinsing away the malaise, the agitation, but not the light. Light. There is still that, now closer, now a looming omnipresence, inviting and condemning.
Aching, creaking, lactic acid and adenosine, dripping fatigue. Nothing tears, and now there are pants, pulled from the memory of where they were last deposited. Decorum intact, stairs now. Lean in to them and grip, feet like crampons, the air weighing down and the atmosphere, all of it, shouldered. Atlas, Sisyphus, boulder up the hill only not, just the body, but heavy enough.