I can lucid dream but I also have insomnia. My guitar in named lucille. Sometimes all of that blurs together.
I am sitting in a shoebox with the lights of in a fit of restless. In my head it's summer then it's winter. Trees'll splinter: gather tinder: make a fire to keep warm one minute, then it's too hot, then I blister: target misser.
Pull the trigger, season kisser. When I'm sleeping I am lucid: flying somewhere, falling listless. In the dead air, interstellar. In the cellar of my being I don't know what's worth believing but I'm still here. But I'm still here. Like the mountains, and mathematics.
Ain't it something?
How we feel either tragic or better than magic?
Dying colors, dying colors, dying colors out my hole of glass I see them wither in the face of staring winter. I'll be buried, they'll be buried. In the snow I feel connected. Then I shiver, coil and slither to the bedrock of my deathbed. But not till I've had my share of calm and collected, and I can go all night, and not wake till the morning. Ready to face my day cause real life can get scorning when you dream this way...but can't ever sleep
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