3.4.07

because i cant sleep, and theres clothes in the dryer

im getting a slight stirring buzz from the "night time cold" medicine now.
getting woozy.
feeling a little alone and stuffy in this house.
feeling too much for this silly frame. surfing the interweb has proven fruitless once again. i feel like im dooming myself to fat thighs and a computer screen tan. my phone lies still, i just want to call everyone in my contacts and tell them some deep dark secret, let them know why my name is coots, how the red in the clay of pottery burns away in the baking process, how the single best moment of my life was defined by a single chromosome and its normality. i want to reach out, here in this back room, but im running sore fingers along sandpaper now. why cant i sleep. people tell me its bad for me. that ill "suffer" the next day.....well creatures of the night like us eh we never have much to say during the said day but we move through it. ill do it tomorrow, like i always do.
[without ferver, but with supreme efficiency]
ugh im coughing up a rattle you would believe. wonderful. can you feel the phlegmy joy? can you feel the shake of my lungs as they tell me enough with the fucking cigarettes already? hmm. im lecturing to an empty stadium, and i think that if there were people in it they would be hooked up to their ipods or on their laptops. with me droning mindlessly into quitely spinning casette recorders, to be skimmed through later and taped over the next class.
[heres to me and my poetic renditions]
ooooooy. my head is spinning. and so are my clothes funny enough. fuck dryer, hurry. i need bed time. dream time. steph time. i need writing fuel and body repair.
i need hands on mine and smiles to remember. i need images to struggle on.
i need the banter. i need the blogging. i need dry clothes, come on come on. i need to stop writing so often here. people may get tired and leave, cancel subscriptions and lead me to hang myself at the thought of losing a viewing audience......
youll have to excuse me........im writing the drunken ballad of another type of intoxication. the im coughing like fucking crazy and drank of the red death that is generic nyQuil.

i need sleep.

i need something.

what could this something be?

understanding wont be enough here.

i may need to feel it next to me, fidgeting and sighing in shifts.

or i may need to get off the fucking computer already.

who the fuck knows.

ill take the road thats readily available.

night.

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