in your message you said you were going to bed but i’m not done with the night. i’m never done with anything, it all persists, subsists, unfocusing, paralyzing. the last thing i’ll finish is the night. i can’t sleep the nights we don’t make love. no night ends, no day begins, no sleep. no bedtime, always waiting and watching clocks skip ahead. always late to bed always late to rise. so i stayed up and read, put your words in my head, got me mixed up so i turned out the light. delirium of literature addiction, this idea-infected body, consumed. with what could be is always what could have been. stay up, lose track of time, nonetheless it stalks. switch off when the sun won’t. who takes me to sleep, who decides to stop being awake, will they ever talk to me? why can’t i remember the dreams they hint with. show it all, tell myself nothing, filmmaker and actor in one. forgettable flicks, incredible tips, missed chances at the bottom of every day. who of us is familiar with a poet? which of us colonizers ensures a habitable time? who’s responsible for this today without any place for tomorrow.


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