just pretend sigh - bill withers - ain’t no sunshine

the night holds out a dark lantern and springs its shutter open, so that in the pitch of mah blindness, mah scotoma is blasted into a battle sphere of wild meteors, blood-blown moons, suns and molten planets, butchered asteroids, berserk comets, luminary clusters, gaudy wreaths of stellar motion, green nebulae, gaseous nebulae, white and spiral nebulae, hairy-stars and fire balls, shimmering sunspots and solar flares, blinding faculae, flocculi, and day-stars, new moons, red planets, and stars of blue and tinsel, trinket-yellow and white stars, harlequin showers, spectral moons and mock moons, sol, helios, phoebus, mars, saturn, dipper, saucepan, big bear and little bear, in collision, in colour, here, in the guttles of the sump, alone and at war with the macrocosm, unner-borne, eyes squeezed shut and rolling-squeezing, squeezing out the last drips of the spectrum behind mah lids, till ah open mah eyes again and feel them adjust back to grey, for everything is forever grey and the pressure unner mah ribs is hurting me, breathing is getting harder, lungs will cleave apart, only just on one half swallered and the pressure...the pressure...the planets of pain...nick cave