We dream without memory, in such a way that the dream of any particular night is no doubt a fragment of a response to an immemorial dying, barred by desire’s repetitiousness. There is no stop, there is no interval between dreaming and waking Maurice Blanchot
I have waited over a hundred nights. Sketching my heartache inside the blur of their blacks. I can not say your name again. So much time has passed. The door has broken in the entryway. It can not open again. My soul is stuck inside those eroding hours. And here it will stay – with all of the monsters that you gave me. I pray their teeth will be as sharp as knives.
After you killed me, you wore my soul, like the night, around your neck. Secretly prized. You had won. And then tossed me, forsaken, aside. You thought you had escaped me, but I am the jewels in your crown now.
Best not to look down that ghastly, grim, black path. The one you shuffled down to get here. That horrific entrance to your now. Turn defiantly away from it. Your ghost still lingers there… And if you are not careful, it will catch you.
I am filled with a greed and lust for something that’s stretched just perfectly out of my reach. An idea that’s quite aloof, and seems to steadily evade and play me. I have sewn it up in dreams and love, and a thousand things I can’t quite hold.. and ached for it on every rising moon.