in the middle of the night i call your name
It's always this hour of the night when I feel the most delirious and remote and transient.
Maybe I'm light-headed from the nosebleed.
But I've never felt this much.
Even in this stillness, the center cannot hold, and the floodgates must give way. It's a tear in the fabric of existence, of space, the platelets spilling out until we notice some slight dilution of the pattern, a shift in the order.
The disturbance, the vapor drifts through this slumbering house, carried on nocturnal winds, inhaled by each sleeping soul. Some subtle energy.
The deliciously fecund smell of the night. The ripeness of late summer evenings. The orchestra of insects, their alien, stringed melodies reverberating in my sleep until I wake up driven to distraction.
And the earth's rotation, every moment bringing us a fraction of a degree closer to absolution.
Maybe I'm light-headed from the nosebleed.
But I've never felt this much.
Even in this stillness, the center cannot hold, and the floodgates must give way. It's a tear in the fabric of existence, of space, the platelets spilling out until we notice some slight dilution of the pattern, a shift in the order.
The disturbance, the vapor drifts through this slumbering house, carried on nocturnal winds, inhaled by each sleeping soul. Some subtle energy.
The deliciously fecund smell of the night. The ripeness of late summer evenings. The orchestra of insects, their alien, stringed melodies reverberating in my sleep until I wake up driven to distraction.
And the earth's rotation, every moment bringing us a fraction of a degree closer to absolution.