Eyes sealed with a frozen crust, that speaks of time now stale, and time so long gone, and yet never ending, will not give in. You wish to sleep, and you wish to wake, but somewhere there, you float in an epoch. Legs flay below, and arms behind, you, you are alive, but you sleep, you are dead and yet, you stay.

Mattress underneath, and white walls around, and trees outside, above; dark clouds made grey with moonlight. Your unknowing hands fold into themselves, and mouth so tightly shut. Of future things, you only perceive a static bleak; a stagnant period, right after a frutive comma. And nothing else, and nothing more.
Endless, endless, endless.
But then that crust melts, stale makes weak, and there's nothing left to give in. So there are the dark clouds made grey now made a soft pink, of fresh skin on wounds stale, and a white day. Of future things, you only perceive a grey fear. Of future things, there's only a sunrise and sunset, and a sunrise again. And there's nothing so wrong with future things as is with fear, that is as curable as an instinctive, unthought stand up after an unexpected fall.