new day, wakey wakey, the sun shines on your face, but you're still lying in bed," whilst begging the world to stop modeling it's stony sunken pout.
And on weaving your way through towers of eviction notices, with your back hunched over like an unopened orchid, towards your wardrobe that is full to the brim with tailored fits of the same slate black suit with dice cufflinks.
And on crafting yourself a plane from an unadulterated piece of paper, that was carefully plucked from the midsection of a forgiving looking precipice, before launching it through the window and into the blue heavens.
And on realising that you probably should not have bought that reduced price alarm clock from a 24-hour service station, off of a smiling salesman who was framed in cold neon lettering, that you can not remember the meaning of.
This is falling asleep in limbo to the sound of lightning howling: " it's nothing that you ever wanted; but all that you ever did try for," whilst rolling too and fro, cursing all of those people who upturned the sun's golden smile.
And on slip-sliding your way down a river of menial thoughts, using your eye mask as a makeshift shield, sinking further and further into your dream, chasing the center point that is overflowing with dancing rainbows.
And on building yourself a boat from the stray memories that float downstream, in an attempt to fight the currents southward pull, before realising that your attempts are pitiful, and running to the bow, only to throw yourself into the black ice.
And on waking in fits of panic in the middle of the night, drowned by a sweat-sodden duvet that you wish you could make ten times thicker, if not to keep out the monsters, then maybe as a lukewarm defense against that screaming alarm clock.
This is lunacy.
