The Limit of the Supremum

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.