**** sleeping.
It's 4 am and the windows sit tilted.
Feels like winter but it's the bone that splinters.
No snow outside just the woe of billions,
though still cold enough to uphold some liquor.
Orwell's vision - a fresh print - first edition.
I'm here to worship the hissing behind the television.
To slip in between the cracks of black and white
til I'm peddling end times like I want it done right.
Spare me a match and I'll bring the 'mite,
we can start where the litter lies.