Sleeptime and Waketime

The meaninglessness of English fiction tries on something revealing.
I think it's a nice look, and I encourage him.

The geometry of inequality wraps itself around, building itself, ushering in the modern politicks

A squirrel locks eyes with me, and I shutter,
Lost forever,
Love locked eyes with an odd job plumber from the Louisiana backwoods, he shuttered,
Lost forever.

In the towns and in the cities,
People keep going missing
Getting lost on their way to normalcy,
Relegating infinity in their finite skull until Mother Nature snaps, cracks open like a new archetype,
Bleeding meaning back into the deep white cloth, then letting it dry up again.



The day life becomes virgin snow is the day I become an empty coffin in vibrant colors. I know I'll either be worshipped or hated and that's the most painful stone to bare.

The passion of the past reopening like a can of nostalgic worms bathing once more in the dense rainfall.
The 90s came pouring in, haunting the blackness in my head, somewhere deep and unbothered, lost somewhere between sleep time and wake time. Singing like a scarlet letter, ready to take hold of a promiscuity.

The cicadas have their soft buzz, humming through warm Indiana summers, shifting every universe to conform to the breathing theorem, the compositional numerical abstract purpose billowing into boisterous pillows that I relax into, just to take my last breath in wake time.

Sleep time runs through everything that waketime can't remember anymore.