To sleep is to lavish gasoline down the throat of a bleached seashell, to watch it coalesce on the pavement, a dry joke, an ocean’s tar skeleton.

My eyes aren’t home until they’re closed.

The pictures running through my head won’t stop until I don’t want them to and I strain with my fingers on the keyboard, my shoulders grounded in Everest, my imagination shivering back with my brown jacket in the sixth grade lost and found.

My desk surrounds me like a deserted island bursting with the fruits of a summer life when my brain can only operate on winter ice

There is no more essence

It doesn’t bother me; I can’t feel.


(Image of genetically-modified glow-in-the-dark cat from http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2036217/Green-glowing-cats-new-tool-AIDS-research.html)


2 thoughts on “Hypomaginitis

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