(no subject)
And it is with the dying of all light that my eyes close, cigarette clentched between my marred lips. Sleep becons, but I will not hear its call until my head is set between my purple shee and my purple pillow. And, perhaps by dying I mean ressurection, as the sun is rising while my hands are still manipulating the shoddy vinyl wheel of the attack van. Many mornings have been spent between myself, the van, and Daria... many drives up bull mountain to view the magnificant sunrise, a few more to my parents house for drugs. Regardless of the afairs of the eve past, dawn is a time but for reflection, and shall not be adulturated by bliss or depression, but more a mute stance of inner vision. If only all days could be dawn, all nights could be dusk, as my harmony is ruled by the sun. And, as my pillow does represent soem virgin sanctuary, I must return to it, for the sun doth becon. And far be it for me to grant it access as is current. May it insead remain in 007 unawareness, initing only a gateway to my far more significant subcuncious.