There is a sea of wayward dreams, where that ship that has sailed finally sinks into oblivion. Where the moon spills into the tide, shattered constellations and the breakers foaming at the mouth. Where every flicker forgets its claims to your affections, where every glimmer runs like a fever over your name. I float upon that surface, those waves of myth and memory. There is a history hidden in every measure of water. There is a moment where we all must wake.
Electric light prowls the grim carpets, pools upon corners and presses against your gaze. There is rain against the window, the tolling bounds of glass. This rhythm so like a heart beat lost to the night. This music hung upon branch and bone. You sing in this stillness, boundless upon the precipice of vivid sleep. You bask in all the light that finds your eyes.
I feel the dull shove of my bulk collapsing towards the earth, learning the tensile strength of relieved intention. This weary mass colliding with the office chair, creaking with exhausted surrender. Sleep such a distant country, my eyes heavy, my vision blurred. There are shores unlit except by stars, seen only when all hope recedes. There is this night, so long and worn with greed.