January 21, 2014


Despite my efforts to change my sleep hygiene left so unkempt I roll in leaves of parchment, in sleeves of envelopes, in ink from fountain pens and folds of books I haven't yet read as sleep calls in to me. A rustling cacophony of paper is the stuff my dreams are nestled on, in the hotel beds and home cribs, I keep away from my lovers. All for the sanctity of the word, and the holiness of the sentence.



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