its a death cab month, the moments when the dark is to dark - the light to light - the bones aching. nothing but the slow drum of a heartbeat, the reverberating sound of whirring fans, soft feather down and the hum of lack of color. somehow - the days are accomplished, but the moments of quiet cannot quantify my existence. i cannot measure within time the slow droll of time, the ticking of seconds slipping by. I'm Young - the colors on the edge of vertigo. "this is fact not fiction for the first time in years.." and somehow nothing can "make me feel any less alone." no company can really make up for the good company i long for. silence is an invitation eased into with death cab, my eyes flutter and breath softens the sheets, as the dewy stains remind me I'm alive, breathing - slipping -- into the state of alternate reality called dreams..
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