MOVE ON

MOVE ON a woman says to me. MOVE ON. It’s time to get going. I don’t know where I am. - MOVE ON, she says. You’ve been doing the same thing for days and days and nights and nights. I want to move on, I really do. Is this a dream? I see only some vague orange shapes and then feel cold. - MOVE ON. There’s that voice, too. But I don’t where she is, who she is, where I am, except that it is Monday, going on Tuesday, and every day has become the same.