Storm force 10 at times

It marked out all dreams into squares, like a 4/4 ride pattern that let no silence in. One volume, continuous intensity, no pause for breath. Uniform. Clocked in. Measured by the dark hour before dawn, blinking away in blue seconds counting themselves out and more beats counting the next phrase in.

The fence, the windows, the parked cars outside, all played relentless unforgiving percussion with rain on an optimistic mission to turn a steep road into a ravine. 

Dreams were caged in by the mocking watchful eyes of the clock. Only tiny parts of their mosaic glinted in the dark pool of a morning mind, but thin shards had bitten into fingertips, reminders of something so lost that it could never be found, and an awareness of a space leaning there.