I , sleepwalking across words.
I, waking up early, 7.20, 9 has the time that cant be lost come yet? 10 - fuck
notes made
of human mind and paper
such a frail material to carry the weight of so much future.
sometimes i think it'll rip and all the coffees we'd have together on our coach will drip right through it.
sometimes i think it'll give me paper cuts deep enough for whole people to fall through them.
I find, in the ends, where pages fold, thoughts find pockets and stay.
I find I hold dimensions beyond two the paper struggles with,
my words span beyond 210x297mm
i want a page where i can write fuck all the way across and then
"i exist for things other than what u left room for me for"
I love the sleepwalking though.
I love the riding of it,
the hope of it
that’s leading always to those same measurable despairs.
