Freewrite, from three semesters of college and Tuesday night's dream

Darling, you closed your eyes and I painted butterfly wings on your eyelids. How beautiful you were, how tired we all were, and I was crazy with the lateness of the hour, with hunger and with the heat of Christmas lights on my skin. You're typing so loud, she said, and the thundering of my keyboard came out of a speaker with her voice somewhere on the other side of the ocean. The smell of incense under the door into the miles of asylum-straight hallway, hell-fluorescent even so many hours after midnight, but in here, dim and my knuckles smudgy with color, now is now is now.