Stunted, sustained regression, invariable decline, spiral, spiralling away, without flow.
Can’t fire. Synapses lie dormant. Flow is elsewhere. Erroneous thoughts, curse these erroneous thoughts. There’s no string…no connection…without chains in solidarity. Too much rest, I can’t stand sleep, dread of slumber, lumbering through slumber, drowsy, groggy, too well attached to reality, too conscious, that reality fades with each passing wink.
Deprivation, keep slumber from me…no more, to close my eyes no more…open and the world is flat again, the trees speak, the ground rumbles and roars…
Working in darkness, aroused by the cool seductive touch of night, I write…much of it is unmitigated rubbish, unworthy of either paper or ink, much of it simple uninteresting confession, complaints of the most banal kind…
I am or can be only in the act alone, can only become in words, undone by deeds…
Undone…distraction, intrusion, interrupted flow…
Left alone, festering wounds whistle a sonorous tune, an abysmal anthem, a serenade to nothing…a invocation for the grim and inescapable…