osmotic pressure

My head was swollen from the effusive restraint emanating from the eighteen adults and three small children crouching in the dim space. The floorboards were aged and leaking
reeking a faint scent of urea
(cow piss, complemented with a butane bouquet.
The only ornamentation was a red shrine - a centerpiece - acknowledging the death of the patriarch some 20-odd years before. The electric candle bulbs carelessly flickered against a thin veil of dust.
'Temporary petrification,' I would think, at times when I looked up at the others. 'No digital display. Power supply disrupted.'

I sat with a dying woman laying around the corner. I remember I fell asleep in front of the window, the sensation of breeze translating into a half-waking purgatory. I fell asleep and dreamt that I was not near the Thai border waiting for my bulbously ill grandmother to turn bulbously deceased. I dreamt I was in London, riding a bus and having sex with an estranged aunt I had not thought of in years and have not thought of since.