It's The Ticking Of The Clock When You Wake Up Alone At 7am

Insomnia is my summer lover every night.

Quiet music floats from my stereo to hold my dreamy stream of consciousness, until i start dreaming to believe that i am in a haze of weary abstraction, folding onto the day's dreams, daydreams and preoccupations, and then i begin muttering nonsensical responses to the eventide. My eyes are closed, but i can see shadows dancing from my musings and from my candles on my dresser, so i curl up tighter. My dusty window lets in cool night time breezes as i am tossing and tangled in my little pink worn-thin blanket.

And then, the twilight is overtaken by violent punches of pink in the sky, making way for the dawn over the parade of cookie cutter houses along the horizon.

Fucking insomnia.

Wet Wet Wet

Tonight found me soaked and screaming while running to my little red car in the severe thumderstorms. Last night was dance floor sweat and spilled drinks in the electronic steam of the hifi.

So now, i have to do some laundry.