zeitgeber Dark and why my eyes adjust so slowly is a mystery of faith and late nights spent hoping and hoping and hoping.
Saying something backwards hurts my tongue and bends like a gymnast the limits of my exposure.
Monday is a series of messages.
Sometimes 3am is alive and sometimes it is a wasteland of abandoned thoughts, thunder, ghosts.
Last night I had things in my head, thoughts of thunder and a moment of clarity I'd have written, but for sleep. And now, it's lost.
Today dreary and windy and cold. Desperation is right behind every molecule.
Dressed a blessing in disguise
Sank a depth best described
As somewhere else
The other side
If lies are kind are they still lies?
