2 am is when i crawl from the cutaneous coverings im in. where i go ill never know. etherized on a cotton spread you cannot invent, invent, invent. there is a congregation of threads that wind and weave many things each one civil and alive in pulped wood and ink and strings or the confines of a greater design. but the drum goes on, on, on and demands synthesis from circumstance or happiness from desert lands. the metaphors kill me i insist. from the microscopes to telescopes, stethoscopes, and periscopes simply, it makes sense. but we are man, and complicate, complicate, complicate we must. make mountains, make molehills, make mending walls, make magic, make, to make. and heavy iron eye lids close every day the same.