Kyle Gannon

The Little Book That Dreams Wrote.

It’s 6:04 Monday Morning. Burts bloodshot eyes open to his bland room; white walls fading in colour, an old work desk and a cheap table-top fan buzzing away on his bedside table. It blows his window blinds back and forth with the steady breeze entering from the bustling uncaring city outside, water droplets create a metronome as they slowly fill a bucket in the centre of his bedroom from the ceiling leakage.