Sometimes your mind wanders off task. You pretend it doesn't happen, of course, but more and more it does. Perhaps you're just getting old, but there's a certain finality to it, like you're running out of time. Never enough time.
You were working on your research, cataloguing results and methods, comparing different situations, but right now you just can't focus. Your hands want to make. They want to build. They want to do everything, and you just can't do everything, becuase you're doing something else right now. The chicken is back, too. It wants you to build. You're not building.
Not right now.
The chicken is bones at your feet. The building has crumbled around you. Above, the sky is vast and gaping, a maw opening up into Midnight, the emptiness of the holes you've come to know so well, finally here to swallow you up.
For lack of any better idea, you hold up your tablet in defense, but the tablet is now a bomb, and so you set it off, and suddenly everything is fine.