5 Ante Meridiem

This cloud, this mist. The acrid smell of worry and bliss. Like sweaty rain and still wind. The blowing dust that can’t possibly move.
I’m stuck in some melting clock. Some Pollok painting, I just don’t get. Pound, pound, pound. The screaming won’t stop. It is enraging. A lustfulness going for your sanity. It uses it and you feel dirty… Disgusting filthy rigor mortis of thought. Time froze, expanding each second. A minute bathed in a bath warm lake on a hot and humid day. I have to construct my thoughts and think and speak. You can’t scream… What would the dog and cat do? What indeed…
What arrogant and useless motions. HOW DARE IT CONCEDE AND GIVE IN? (Yeah, bullshit in the Grey/Gray). Even the voice over is aggravated and confused. Fuck you, 5 AM…

 

T.L. Stafford

1/2018

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