Somewhere along the way the silver threads that embroider daylight with dreams have melted, losing architectured edges and I find these days it's harder to tell whether I'm even awake at all.
Trance chaos, but curiously calm, considering and sleepy. My corridor is long but I have no reason to hurry.
Broken lamps against the walls dusty apartments to spiders and fluff. No lightbulbs. Only husks of maybe once upon a time ideals.
There is a familiar light of gossamer gold murmurs over me I've been here before and there isn't much farther left to go. Incandescent airspace pulsing like a living heart rising, ebbing, coaxing me on.
The lamps are a silent vigil to my journey.
Again I am here at my tabula rasa. The door is laid with bricks, sealed by my own earthly hands Will not open! Will not open! Un-opening door. And as far as I've ever come. Light all around, fleeing from robinred tetris brickwork. Intimate, tantalizing, maddening Bone aching Mystery.
Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet. I yet. Yet again. I am here. Crossroads. Yield to trains. There is no last stop until I play cartographer and circumnavigate Wasteland concepts. Swamps of muted wishes.
Until I put my broken lamps back together I am here. Wandering, waiting,