Timeless and strung out into creative patterns of Benzedrine withdrawals and slowly accrued losses.
You drink with your friends and laugh in wild manacles of laughter, burst out of red wine cheeks divine in the never ending moment of the joyous night. This is your time you say, and your friends agree and the beat thrills, staggered and expectant, the melody of your voices dancing improvised to its play.
You go out into bars and dark city streets where you try and describe the general intelligible, whilst somewhere in the past you sit in the fleeting moment and do not act upon it, and wonder if you’re wrong for doing so.
And something seems off, you haven’t felt this way in months, you haven’t felt in months, and so you break down into the words of friends, a culmination of what’s wrong that’s been coming for years now, but they can only tell you where they’re up to, because they haven’t figured it out yet either.
And so you walk home, and alone orbs of light meditate above street sidewalks and you pace yourself, drunk and solitary, wishing the night never reached this point; a recurring dream, and you can’t quite escape its pattern.
You declare holy, this heart of yours, its muse your room where you sit and write the words of your world, and declare things sacred. Sink into yourself and let go, the creation of god was just an illusion.you create a world in six nights and it is easy.
The work of your hand spills ink onto page and moonlight stands isolated behind cold window glass. But escape creeps up on you, cant suffer this heat of writing mind, oppressed into desk and posted room, presses down on you, and so you go outside and it is blessedly cold.