Insomnia #1732

It is a summary pain, that which wraps up one’s existence as one swaddled in downy blankets, a hand-worn, grime-caked steel instrument in oily canvas, or anything biological in a thin layer of translucent painter’s polyethene dropcloth – a chrysalis for a nascent gift to the world which wishes never to be unwrapped.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 5th, 2009 at 03:55:43 and is filed under Journal.

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