It is getting to four in the morning,
and so I will end this transmission.

I have conceeded all my ambition,
all inhibition,
to the paradise plain
of gothic symbols
and gossip counters;
trading secrets for status,
whilst painting the nails
of their foe.

The time is getting stupid now,
punch-drunk on half-sobriety;
unsure what is sense
and what is misery.

I have chosen revision over animation,
going over the same information,
in the uncertain elaboration
of passed-on wisdom,
of facts learned by force,
and not by a cognitive transition.

It is getting too late to talk like this.
These words fall apart,
to old dreams; I'll relive.

I wish you a kindness,
and I'll wake you in the morning.
I will play to you a pop song,
and whisper traffic warnings.

You take your sleep
and you shelter within,
this is your marbled existence,
this is freedom from sin.