As glass separates rooms and the world, hanging illusions of each, I hang a window of words to describe the scene, and end up beating my wings against these mere reflections. Being the window would be the thing, but I'm only inside or out. The fortunate moths have no idea that they have no idea. I have the idea and nothing else but reflections. The shared voice of breeze and trees says things I can't. How can I write on air?
-
- rejectomorph (
flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind
Ordinary Night
As glass separates rooms and the world, hanging illusions of each, I hang a window of words to describe the scene, and end up beating my wings against these mere reflections. Being the window would be the thing, but I'm only inside or out. The fortunate moths have no idea that they have no idea. I have the idea and nothing else but reflections. The shared voice of breeze and trees says things I can't. How can I write on air?
-
Reset Nineteen, Day Ten
Friday I managed to wake up not long after two o'clock, so the evening was not too short. It remained balmy outside for a while, and I sat under the…
-
Reset Nineteen, Day Nine
Sleep went erratic again and I didn't get out of bed until four o'clock Thursday afternoon. At least my body got out of bed, and though my brain must…
-
Reset Nineteen, Day Eight
There was spaghetti (well, angel hair to be precise) for dinner Wednesday, and I'm happy to say that so far the marinara sauce has not brought on any…
- Post a new comment
- 1 comment
- Post a new comment
- 1 comment
