sometimes the music gets so loud inside that my eyes open inside, I see inside, there is a lot of darkness, but there are echoing rememberances, distorted picturescapes and soundscapes, there are poets of the night, the ones that stay up creating artficial worlds, that play out in a place far away, the actors are somewhat disturbed with an overwhelming sense of deja vu, deja ete, and they lift their hand, invisible strings pulling up the wrist, as they stare up at the sky, boundless- or perhaps a simple backdrop? The poets of the night, they have wire frame beds, with tattered baby blankets, and cold hardwood floors, they sleep in attics, keeping a little window open with a waterlogged book..old poets are waterlogged books- much too full of inflated prose and emotion, holding up the window so that others can see out... they cannot forget what others seem to have forgotten, glazed eyes, walking quickly... they are at a standstill, can't move their limbs through the amber honey abyss, every moment is weighted with a burden of feeling... they are tugged by strings, strangers to apathy and nonchalance....