Up with the birds and chimes, no rest granted the weary, least alone I, weary in Biblical proportions. Slept for a while on a shitty couch, struggled to my feet, excusing a bashed knee as I tumble towards my bedroom to wash my teeth. But sleep nay come, so a porchlight covenant with too-sweet liquor I have stowed, eyes rolled back and sucking to find an alternate dawn. Daylight is upon us, no less lonesome than its brother-the-night, and I fool myself, tickling, "Today shall be different!", though there is no longer a difference in the days of convicts. I have sealed my fated lips with a stretching wax, as if this is how I chose it, this day, each day, passing as an unlit fuse, soaked and waning under an abysmal fucking tidal urge to swell beyond my given boundaries. I skip amongst a gerrymandering long dead and uninterested, empty lines lingering just long enough for a proper questioning, bent lamplight glares in my face and shoots violence into untanned eyes. I know nothing, I swear, not me but he who tempts you Fates and fists, he my brother though I know him not! Ah, pity you poor fool who lurks within my scab'd bones, to hide your wretchedness within a wall of sanctity and secret despair, peering out of my bone-hole window with a hound's baleful eyes and lamenting the great yoke that has been clenched down firmly upon [y]our brow. Really, then, you'd have thought he larger than an unkempt derelict, larger than the beetles that helicopter madly upon the bells' striking tone, a tome a tomb a room, all the same, wrapped in doom with your cardboard California spine. Books are to blame for my not having ate solid food for a week, for my guts erupting upon the intervention of a careful calorie. Books are to blame when I wake upon a ghost and stammer my morning, stamp my morning unto an evening bereft of charm and holiness. I soaked the meat in a sink until the blood bled through paper and turned the water rust, chopped it and fried it and paced circles within tired circles, never enough blood to feed the healthiest vampire "who looks so sick in the sun". My dreams are filled with many-trunked elephants, great engines that spin and spit turbulent waters through the skies of imaginary hospital towns, and carefully indulgent women who refuse to plead an allegiance because/in spite of that kick'd dog that insists on following my steps while wearing a mocking cloak of my thin skin.