11.4.18

between sick and slick


, there is a world of stream of consciousness (words), bonded by nothing but feeling sorry for a self that's not even half there. Oh what a pity to not spend time on solid writing but instead bounce through this misty head that's about to disconnect every second now but not ever really.

So where do we go from here?
Where do we go from here?
Any way the wind blows?
Any way the story goes?
Five stories down, up and back again?
Sleeping in the open window, feeling breezes touch and leave me. Looking out, not seeing any, feeling friends, not staying, any. Waking up, feeling absurd, another day, still the same, don't let go but let this wash. Over me, there is a glimmer, sweaty greedy little glimmer, want it all but doing nothing, want it all not doing nothing, going for the places but still staying at home, not at home anywhere, trying to, trying to, waking up the neighbours, being ignored anyway. Letting my dear ones sleep the sleep of ages, letting my dear ones near me for a second and then keeping a distance, scared and confused, attention span failing to work this out, attention span failing to work this out. Repeating myself all over again, expecting no different results but still hoping somehow.

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