Of repetitive nights and vacuous mornings.
sleep that comes in windows tiny, so narrow their width narrowing with each moment. Take a plunge or be left out on the other side of wasted wakefulness, where eyes alone stay shut and dreams are consciously conjured up.
an entire day of expressing fastidiously in chronological order, time now to manufacture a few yawns in bed machinery plastered clean with fresh linen.. populated by dormant bodies, littered with unspent moans, whispering promises in creases ironed flat to a crisp indifference and rattling snores.
Nights are unpleasant and that is perhaps their only redeeming aspect. Apathetically obtuse, unhinged, unbothered, distressing and forceful.
Invading with a pressure to be something anew tomorrow.
Harbinger of strong resolves that never wake up to see light of the day, for mornings work as a salve to soothe out lacerating wounds from overthought over mused nighttime. A poultice of casual calm to help recuperate into the relaxing arms of a new day.. for what are nights if not the opposite of river of light? Dark deeds that fuel dark thoughts.
Disregard each night, for they mean nothing.
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