i’ve hit the point


where I can ride the high, or sleep. The point when your circadian rhythms start your heart beating loud slow solemn, a very stately tempo. And if I wait a moment, it’ll pass and I’ll be wired. If I lay down too late, then I waste the hours thatcouldbework in bed staring at the glittering Klimpt foilposter. ‘slika drug, the way eyes don’t track quick ’nuff, light and distance play pranks, the heaviness of movion and bodies and the sounds cluttering the places they fall.

I could seize the (night) or let it all relax into shadows.

(time for bed)


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