to write
and nothing comes.
it is a wakeful sleep.
too tired to sleep. too tired to
wade through the mire of
the day's thoughts.
so alive. fresh. full of possibility.
twelve
hours
ago.
now they sleep somewhere in my brain.
wandering. somnambulating.
they have wandered somewhere
not to be found.
and the sleep comes heavy.
my eyes.
my brain.
the peace of it is alluring.
but these walking words, these ideas, these thoughts
know
no
real
rest.
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