Letter to an Insomniac

Indiscriminately I slide down to bad posture in the chair.

Would it be that which determines my fate, this slide, let's cut the shit, think of the curve of the crescent moon against the chair of Cassiopia, and the lesser, duller shine as it rests.

Racecar driver makes this decision constantly. To refuel or to press against cement.

But tonight it feels...easier. To rest. To ignore fault. To heed the blue and yellow striped flag. To heed the expanding universe and its patterns, silver pinprick freckles of some obliterated Goddess.

Gravity is not so much a result of hurtling now, as of the illusion of lethargy. A turtle shell pressed upon by a palm.

If you do not believe this is an illustration of the flaws of time, I fear I have already lost you to lying ticking clocks/hearts/electric currents of our tongues. If my introducing the image of a tongue confuses you, open your mouth and allow whatever may to combust and burn. Listen to the metamorphosis of living tissue to ash. This is all you have to say in a human lifetime. Until you burn alive, then rest, you have never told the truth.

If it is easy, then, to rest, consider it a beautiful meteor shower.