Mute. Vulnerable Given to collapse. My heart lies diminished. Having peeled back too many scars, too many layers I am raw, besmirched, and not yet itchy. There is no comfort in expectation. In the opposition of neurons corrosively overburdened. I think too much. I succumb too easily to lawless sleep. To anti-realities and dissociations. Hours pass more quickly than minutes. Minutes are impatient. Minutes add up but hours reduce. It’s a long time waiting for the sun to drop. Waiting for my responsibilities to undress and settle serenely into the arms of a generous lover.
I am exhausted. Minutiae are threatening mutiny. I scurry, kaleidoscopic, through rooms on the verge of collapse. The Gilings are on the rise. I’ve arrested the latest pathogen and all I really want is to lie on the sofa with a swatch of velvet thrown over my icy limbs. I want to dream, idle dreams, that require neither compliance nor consummation.
Gilings just means dust but it sounds like some type of creature doesn’t it? I am emotionally and physically exhausted and yep I am getting sick. Also I want people to write letters real pen to paper letters. I keep telling myself I will write letters but to whom? My hand-writing is atrocious and I’d drive myself crazy worrying about it. I wouldn’t even have very much in the way of concrete things to say. Maybe I should write post cards lol I absolutely love post cards.