In a dream conscripting business I am..
of writing eulogies for fragments of desiccated sleep, in little flowers most fragrant, exuding mist and perfumes of high fashion houses, lest nights take away that moment I so long to live and breathe.
And thus dawdling at snails pace mounted on a turtle shell, stuck upon a jet ski lying rusted on a forgotten sea shore, I wait for insignificance to shadow me in heart wrenching puffs of dust that cut in deep, so deep it won't even bleed..except dispel little moats of unseen debris crumpling in gritty smoke that bring about a cough so vivid violent it strains against eyes, pushing on irises until hacking nerves block; showing sun trapped visuals of starlights and neon sights, and then a slight rupture of disengaging lungs..iridescent imagery ending in trauma of tangible triviality.
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