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rejectomorph

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Reset Twenty-Two, Day Twenty-Five [Aug. 22nd, 2021|04:48 am]
rejectomorph
Rising too late, leafing through the scraps of day, forgetting the thoughts that tumbled about when the periods of wakefulness came, hiding out in ordinary acts, pretending to be invisible, which was pointless as there was no one to see me anyway; Saturday. The air was not quite cool, not quite smoky, not quite fresh. The evening passed, littered with old dissatisfactions. Midnight came and went, I dozed without sleeping, remained unrested. Now late night has grown chilly, and there is what passes for quiet here: lone cars passing on the freeway, their sounds fading in the distance, then another, a moment and then another, and another. The slightest breeze stirs. How long has it been since I've heard silence?




Sunday Verse



Multitudes Turn in Darkness


by Conrad Aiken


The half-shut doors through which we heard that music
Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence,
The stars wheel out, the night grows deep.
Darkness settles upon us; a vague refrain
Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain.
In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep.

Where have we been? What savage chaos of music
Whirls in our dreams? We suddenly rise in darkness,
Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more.
We dream we are numberless sea-waves, languidly foaming
A warm white moonlit shore;

Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight,
Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness,
Or a singing sound of rain…..
We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness,
And enter our dreams again.
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