Insomniatic Mental Static

The witching hour, that thin thread of time between day and night that stitches the fabric of our reality. The limbo place where echoes may cast a longer shadow than a song. When the body sighs in it’s watery depths and a mind ascends the staircase of it’s lofty cathedral.
This is when the currents are felt most strongly, when the hot visions branded there by sunlight are most vivid behind the eye lids.
So close.
Near enough to nirvana to drink stardust, far enough from dawn to taste the ashes of sunset… This is the true testing of a soul.
When darkness creeps beneath the threshold of your locked doors and insinuates ghostly fingers deep into the secret corners, where it hides from the light of regard. Hidden there by intentional blindness it festers like a wound gone foul. Whispers of wanting keen like grieving widows and memories howl like a lupa in the hunt.
Lie down gently on your bed of despair made plush and bearable by the softly spoken vindications, and rest your head on a pillow of dreaming. Soon the tides of morning will roll in like a grinning dog in a dusty patch of earth and obscure the tracks of your tears that are scattered upon the shore.


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