Friday, 8 November 2013

Sleep Deficient

23:32. Put the espresso mug down.
Admit, relinquish. The sky, vast and soft and cold and black and silver speckled, turns slow overhead, whale-esque.
How wearisome it seems, to need sleep or nutrients or basic hygiene.
One would rather be as the sky: existent, encompassing.
Can eyes crumple?
Under-shadowed: distant as the night.

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