When will I be a butterfly?

Good morning, Good afternoon, Good evening.

I have been approached and asked to speak…on the subject of silence. Well hello, here’s something I know something about. I can’t usually speak when I’m sleeping, and I sleep sometimes at night.

I’ve been meaning to post here more, but instead I have been sleeping. I think I have a disease, or a worm, or maybe depression. I’m not sure, but whatever it is requires extra sleep.

And then sometimes, when the fatigue is not overwhelming me, I get sudden creative urges. Everything seems difficult though, so I nap instead. Nothing ever produced.

Speed should be legal, and abundant.

There are so many ways that these things could go down, sometimes the thought of it all can be overwhelming. Sometimes though, it is the thought of all these possibilities that can fuel my crashing psyche.

I wake up each morning and I think…here we go again.
And we always do…again and na-gain. These covers are comfortable… and so he thinks to himself “maybe my day can consist of sleeping”. I think about sleeping, mostly when I’m not. It seems magical, has a flavor that I can taste from the most fleeting of glimpses. To sleep, and turn off all that outside noise, hubabaloo brewing for someone else, somewhere else.

Awake again.

Standing in the bathroom and staring at the mirror, I am forced to remind myself of a few things. I have created this. I am responsible for the day. I choose how it will turn out. This seems familiar to me, and yet all these words smell stale. Here we are again I guess.

And so I masturbate again, only this time to a book about Henry Ford. I do it faster and quicker than ever before.

from the private archives of pidibi