What he does during the day is anyone’s guess. He disappears behind one of those shadowed, black, upper-story windows, draws the shade and the rising sun beats it gold. The restless sound of traffic carries up to him from the street. Perhaps it’s something other than insomnia, to lie listening to children yelling as if they’ve recreated light; to try and dream, but succeed only in remembering; to toss and sweat in a dirty paste of sheets, while the drone of a ball game is gradually replaced by the buzz of a fly - a fly buzzing like the empty frequencies between stations as its shadow grows enormous between the shade and the windowpane. Is it insomnia for a man to wad his ears with cotton from a pill bottle, to mask his eyes with blinders, and press a stale pillow over his head, praying for another day to burn down, so he can wake into another night?
A mixture of reblogs and posts about literature, poetry, quotations, cyborgs, radical technology, queer theory, fascinating erotica, invitations to duel, images of note and whatever else I feel like.