westid

pacing backwards and forwards, bowing of head to show my appreciation for higher powers and dominant forces, my mind works

always see it coming several days in advance. see all the right conditions line up perfect, even though i left them to chance

nobody plans to be asleep, they just do the last thing in their routine for the day. my pattern is different, and i don’t fall into circumstance; i’m just wired this way

still wired, i give it noir all night and what gets written might shift from darkness, and everything i see is cast upon by red light. x-ray vision makes you transparent before my hivemind-twisted eyesight. this is the vigil, and i’m busy. keeps me up all night

all the entropy that sets in after so much time, is just pestilence to sweep out the way; it’s futile as fuck yet something i still try and fight

for the moment, i submit to my faithful readership another literary delight

yeah! fuckin right.

up all hours that blast forward into days, i process the backend of my conscious mind – tedious tasks and arbitrary objectives delve beneath a misleading perspective on the surfaces of every last loose thread my meticulously managed methods never fail to find. filed! into the archives of my personal library, not a single solitary sentience nor sentiment gets left behind

as the tapestry of brain achingly horrible masochism via utter tedium of tasks is accomplished, somehow / always when i’m not watching for it another level just happens; i push the productivity as far as i can while time elapses, until the entropy gets too much and my whole stance just collapses

i love the dead of the night when everyone has fucked off, it feels more like my time. even if it isn’t, there’s no one around to tell me different. it’s inconveniently placed between one day and the next; portrayed as self administered insomnia with counterproductive visual effects