The morning is filled with fate, as someone once said, inevitably. I’m not sure if that is exactly true. Or perhaps, I had not notice the import of those brief hours when sleep has relinquished its sway. The borderlands of consciousness offer only ghosts and mirages, ethereal gilded traps that beguile me to tarry with little reward but wasted minutes that stretch to demolished hours.
Yet, I am loathed to have it any other way. I am keen to be caught asleep at this catherine wheel. My bones are no longer my own. Their breaking feels unreal, an illusion, a bad dream whilst i wait for my inevitable wake.
spiral scratch
concerto de aranjuez .. . { miles davis, sketches of spain }
tainted love .. . { soft cell, non-stop erotic cabaret }
nadine .. . { chuck berry }
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