Proverbial Whisky

First, when he wakes up, he rubs his eyes. It doesn't take much to feel better, then he can get out of bed and pretend he wasn't crying all through the night.
Atlantic Ocean water blue wallpaper sends him through vortexes in this initial darkness until he opens the blind, bound, blinded by yellow stampeding horses. Skulls and strips of ichor imprint on his vision, remaining as dirty permanent stains.
Day goes vainly and night comes too soon, what's left of his energy goes to rubbing his eyes, sweat lubricating grime, wondering if they'll one day fall out his sockets.