If your words were sincere,
why do they have so limited a lifespan?
I hear you after hours, in the after-hours of longing,
listening not for words, but authenticity.
I feel greatly invisible;
a ghost town between two cities.
Where promises, like billboards, sell me good.
Blue Halite; Intrepid Potash Mine, Carlsbad, New Mexico
Nothing was ever
so interesting as when
it sat on the verge.
No one may understand me until I make sense of myself. And I’m so intimately confused. Disconnected. Though I have it in me to listen, all I hear is noise.
Schorl on Albite; Biyano, Ho Nala, Pakistan
The Nightmare, by Henry Fuseli is thought to be one of the classic depictions of sleep paralysis perceived as a demonic visitation.
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