Becomes hunter

Maybe sleep isn’t elusive, maybe we elude it:

At 2am, everything is an insight too good to miss.

Daytime, and my eyes are so tired they’re sliding off objects.

For a moment, 3D becomes 2D, planar world.

I’ve got cobalt pixels, tachypsychia, and the airport hush.

Aircon sounds like an orchestra tuning. A cistern filling is like conversation.

The fridge compressor is choral evensong.

My reflexes, conversations, are just macros.

An event-packing routine takes care of the field admin.

I’m a figment of my own imagination, a double-entry, an accounting shorthand.

I’m dying on my feet here, but aren’t we all.

And then, there’s that speed-bump narcolepsy.

A jolt.

And, sleep.

Seventy pairs of pastoral figures are toiling, dancing, love-making, on a verdant slope.

In an instant, I know what each of them is doing.

They coalesce into two groups, drain swirl to solid shapes.

Half-awake, I see R’s face in the shapes of pillows.

Hypnogogia throws at me all possible sizes, and orientations, of his face and features.

A greyscale collage.

Picture a moonlit mackerel sky of tessellated faces.

R has the violet eyes of cloud shadows on spring seas.

My Huckleberry friend.

I wake dreaming a head rush, facedown in the pillow.

The black hum, and that present/not-present timeslip.

An 8-bit black-and-white death’s head flashes a clichéd warning.

Silent drama.

It’s the best sort.

Puke your big black Jabberwocky onto the kitchen floor: turns out it’s a white rabbit, with pink eyes.

Only now am I levelling up for the real boss fight, slash reconciliation,

And oddly, liberatingly, it’s about nothing I expected.


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