This world is
night-grey, stoplights and
chemical-scented. Buildings
without windows are my home.

At night, all I am is
the dream you wrote. In the
acetylene-sharp smelling
acetone-and-ozone, listen.
There is a roaring.

It is:
generators-howling-up drives-clicking fans-dying forced-air screaming
and it never stops.

You ask me where I get my stories.
Well.
Imagine: living in a box for half a year
with no flowers
no holidays
and the echoing voices of the Internet
going in one ear
and getting stuck out the other.

It hurts like New York City:
never sleeping.
It aches like a bone breaking:
down to the marrow.
And you ask me how.

Well.
Imagine you have no voices
no language
no outlet
but.

Sleep is blue-green-gray-white brilliance,
with stars dancing in another time. Sleep is full of
nets with scattered water beads and candles
that never flicker. Sleep
has warm hands
wet lips and
old loves that never age.

You ask me where I get my stories, well
I have nothing left but stories
and my water-beaded dreams.



Circa 2009, before I started hearing voices in the air handlers.

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