You’ve been asleep for years. The deep kind where you can’t tell your asleep anymore because you’re awake by all biological standards but according to the soft blacks high on your cheeks and the wall of disassociation prizes lining the inside of your eyes you’re a walking dream. Running it down right out of the movies in your head, right out of the darkness of your bed at 2am, right into the slow crawl 40-hour morning of your life. Right into the words you’ve begged to sing sparks electric in your body for a chorus worthy of Whitman’s refrain. Waiting on a call that wakes alive your bones from false ascetic. Along these lines is an edge of indifferent panic, sleepwalking til you slip, quietly crossing your fingers.