rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Ill Still of the Night

The shrouded moon spent half the night glazing the trees, then left to peer at its own reflection in the Pacific. Instead of living in the present, I spent the other half of the night sunk in memory. The moon and I have something in common. I, however, cannot effect the tides. They are there, nevertheless, seeking to drown me while I am stranded, dug in up to my neck. I have the distinct sense that I've done all this, said all this, before. One time or another, I had a fever, and everything I saw was distorted. Reality is like that now. It is material for strange dreams. I wonder when they will begin?
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