10.Nov.2001

sleep-change

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late at night while you're sleeping

Insomnia runs thick as the others sleep. Filled up on drug remnants. My saving grace is stream-of-consciousness. This room consists of two mattresses and one leather divan; much to my chagrin, the leather divan is empty.

Saturday morning while the world is sleeping draws the advent of semi-creativity through my normally fucked brain-tide. I concentrate on all the imperfections of my flu-stained, physical self. I take my hair down and brush my hand against the side of my face, hot and smooth.

The air brings change and the air brings fever. It is human instinct to adapt. My clothes are folded on the empty, leather divan, and I keep running my nails down the side of my neck, blunt and clear.

The brink of slight disappointment; shadows begin to shimmer across the desk by some unseen, metallic force. I feel the burden of my skin through my apparel.

I wanted to say I embraced change but want fails me. The infamous, college-ruled red notebook is filled with my trivial desires, five new pages born tonight, fed solely by Recoil and the influence of the other side. I keep touching all that is wrong in me.

Fingernails. Scraped along bottom lip, slight pout, into the face of sharp Autumn. I must have choked. My annoyance turned into relief, a grip around stomach, eminent youth, scanned by the eyes of the bored and unknowing.

There is no end to stream-of-consciousness, but change denies this, and lays its head upon the empty, leather divan, until it sleeps.

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time & machine