it's the curse of the insomniac.

After so much conciousness
the brain naturally assumes a mushy state.

And despite how hard we try
We can never make the sloshing go away.

Too noisy

Too repetative

To rest a weary mind.

You try to be as still as possible-
Calming the waters
Parting the sea
Waiting for it to take you...

SLEEP

elusive dreaming para-stasis

But the laws of nature simply don't apply
And intertia has its way with the soggy bits in your mind.

Leaving you tenser
than you had been before you tried to
relax.

no breathe
no pause
no rest for the weary
(blah blah fucking blah)

we've heard it all before.

Tell us a new story

A fresh kill to feast upon
Gorging my eyes
upon our inked kill,

Flowing out
hot...
fresh...
spattering shapes
across the empty pages...

The blank slate of my empty mind.

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