During the winter of {twenty-thirteen/twenty-fourteen}
many a night I did spend alone, marathoning powerful
series (namely, Game of Thrones), until eventually
the sun crept up and finally I'd fall
into troubled sleep, exhaustion was the only stuff.
So eager to forget the world I was
that I found myself in such a lonely place. I kept what
it offered me: an escape. I went a week without daylight.
The night was all mine for this nocturnal escapism, it was
great, a ridiculous and foolhardy thing, I needed it so badly
back then. In this act of praxis I vilified.

It was during one of my worse times,
When I'd be out sessioning regularly
'til dawn and for days afterwards I'd
still feel the come-down. Two lives fit
into one sleeping pattern all-too-perfectly. I remember skagging with an odd fondness now, fairly irreligious yet therapeutic somehow.