A creeping sense at the edge of your dusky impermanence...
Where do you go tonight?
Where do you lay?

Where have you lied?
What must you remember to correct for?

"Cast me in your movie!" you cry.
"Give me name and meaning!"

Every incrementally smaller version of you with less and less reach,
Fumbling hands fumbling, feet that wish they could grab, and that other thing--
Evolution's prehensile fail
Grasping inability.
A group of people laughing about your screenplay This Dusky Impermanence,
Regaling with no shortage of ridicule.
In the dream you're telling all about yourself,
Trying to set a multitude of incorrect facts straight,
And everything feels wrong,
Failing.

You were cold and you kept putting on more and more layers of clothing.
Old coat an ill fit but
It felt briefly like fall where you'd grown up,
And it felt good. Familiar.
But the shift was on and breath short.
A sudden, violent chill came over you.
This then, the barely being.
"I can do this."
"If I started over."
You were looming over you with surprisingly indelicate footstep.
You kept falling. 
You'd an impossible get-up.
Voices in another room talking at increasing volume,
Getting, you think, everything wrong.
Multitudes of wrongness.
"I can do this."
"If I started over?"
Pocket is reached and found.
You fold in and fold in and fold in,
Misshapen holding on, forming again and again and again.
You'll lay here tonight. And you just assume tomorrow.