Laying prone next to death which may or may not be my neighbor; knowing that nothing I remember will save me; knowledge, useless knowledge, a required accompaniment to my carefully selected claret smiling with assurance as I infringe upon their right to object to the depths of my retort.

A wrinkled sheet ignored but useful in its random spread across my torso draws the sweat from my pores as I save the planet from my presence while the restlessness of unmerciful insomnia instills a quiet uselessness to my thoughts which I egocentrically assume will yield prose worthy of public display.

As the knowing is swallowed whole, as the last hardened cheese ******* on a plate, it becomes relevant to believe in anything unproven as further observed phenomena is no more or less a sequel to a play yet to be understood by genius or idiocy whose consciousness rival one another in their need to be loved by a suffering mother.

The bullet crosses the boundary between dream and threat into an assumed position of relevance in every step I take towards a repetitive life filtered only by the need for a decision; unhappy with or without; each the same yet held aloft by the delusion of a chance encounter with a heart I will use but never protect.