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These are my molecules. Dreams. They've scored a trough the breadth of mind; Nile of white matter, Ganges of grey. Motes arise. Bulbs of inner levity. They pulse. Burst. Quake by their own right. In the morning I stand inert by the pane, see the white and the dim and the going slant. I haven't been sound for some time. I've been portioned. Timber sheared, gone to other places. Countless hours (these persistent infinities) won't touch my viscera or the hum of me, and the minutes pull apart; ash drifting into the air. Ash, the wake of ash, of heat...
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