Sleep

Death, death, death, death, death. It was a pressure on the chest. It was a pressure on the prefontal cortex. A lobectomy. Damage. It lingered. It would always linger.

–

Dreams and death; death and dreams. Smitten lips and smited flesh. Exposed breasts, red, blood; crests, insignias, and war chests; ammunition and lead, and dreams, and death, and death, and dreams. Breath, exhale, she only shops retail, commercial; she told me that it all feels like an unspoken rehearsal.

He rides in a hearse; he speaks like a curse, in cursive—this shit is recursive—-a relapse—-a collapse to a paste state, a memory, back to another dream. I can’t tell if he wants to sleep, to dream, or to breathe, or if he just needs to speak.

I’ve got blood on my hands and the dreams speak in tongues in the corner of the room. I can’t understand. Is it a foreigner? I kill him I kill him. It is bloodless. White. Pale skin. Twin faces in June; new faces in June. Two legs and oxygen. Calcium and flesh. The sun burns hot. Our skin peels, and peels. Masochistic dreams that we let be. Like an entity, an animal. We are reminded of Miyazaki, and of textures. Soundscapes. Taste. Taste. There is taste and there is not and there is nourishment and there is luck and there are dreams (whatever that is) and there is death (a period, the conclusion of a thought (sentences written by God)).

Wounds in flesh. Disfigurements in spirit: they them we us could be is that for why howalksdjfklsjalakmaekrm

When they sleep, we dream.

And when we dream there is silence, and there is silence, and there is silence, and there is noise.

Dreams and death; death and