Note

It's past midnight. The sea nears and furthers in an indifferent hallucination. I look out the hotel window. 3 shadows bury a dream underneath the darkness of the beach. They remind me of days unspent in hospital rooms but on highways punctured by chyrillic writting. My life has often been of the same texture as GOYAs paintings. A place where gods and animals crowd together in violent clashes of hatred and affection. It's past midnight. My memory seems to remind me. aS A CLOCK WOULD IN THE MORNING TO SOME FORGOTTEN OBLIGATION THE SLEEP WANTS TO BURY. i AM TIRED. Void of inspiration. The nights flow by, dedicated to forgetfullness. I no longer dream. I no longer stay awake. The nothing has changed. In my chrysalis I remain a larvae afraid to grow out of its shell in the face of the coming winter.