Irrationed bloodflow, and faulty dream sequences

He awoke it was five fifty-eight and still light outside
How long had I slept? Did I sleep at all? ..  he wondered.
then sat up, threw away the blanket
and stood up from the sunken couch
whose lopsided cushions gave his neck a wrench
but his back was stiff otherwise
it had been lately.
His eyes focused and he walked caustiously
past the coffee table to the laptop on his desk and
began immediately to type
of the things on his mind during that time.
He wrote from memory and produced best he could
the picture stained in the glass of his synapses
the memory cells clinging to each last draining spark
of imagination, so that he might fill in the spaces
left after time took its toll.
His face glowed but he wasn't glowing
like a woman does following labor
because his soul was dying if not already dead
and his last nerve was wasted on
remembering the final detail of his father's forehead
but he didn't care
he would give up his life to remember it one last time
just so he could preserve his presence in prose.
He would discover that time was irrelevent around 6:06
and reach into the drawer in his closet around 6:07
His father's memory wept in his mind and he wept with him
tears welled up in his eyes and soon fell down his cheek
collecting on his six o'clock shadow.
He wrote but nothing came out
not a word felt right from the beginning
and soon the sparks were gone
the image faded from his temporal lobe like a cloud of steam
on a hot day.
Those pillows had seen more of it than he had
and the selfish bastards weren't sharing anything.
From a watery perspective, the screen was melting
and his life was melting with it
until he melted into confidence enough,
and his blood melted into the carpet.