Thursday, March 05, 2009

Tossing and turning was some kind of game, one without dice, because black dots on white should hardly be the decider of dreams, hazy apparitions of persons long since buried. Hands reaching up into headlight shadows, half-eaten torsos that cannot digest what they have ingested. Hands clap over toothless grins, an applause for empty streets and buildings like hallways that they shall never walk.

All in the comfort of pressed cotton, warm, supportive. The daily hypocrisies of how we close our eyes when it's dark and open our eyes to bright lights and dissonant, jarring lives that are anything but.

But these sewer drains are both object and action, so perhaps there is hope yet that we will allow some stationary slumber, thoughtshapes that pool into something fluid and tangible on pillows well-crushed by nights before nights before nights.

Insomnia implies never opening the door or getting through the barred window. I can get inside the house, put my foot over the threshold, slam elbows into plate glass, I just can't promise the house is stable.

Or my own.

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