This is not what you think it is. In fact, it is not even what you think it is not.
Infinite impossibilities tangle inside my skull, contemplating and conspiring on expiring my last waking moments in a cacophony of idle thoughts so they can watch the show of me turning and churning in the sheets, struggling to extrapolate myself from all that is all my thoughts at once.
Mere caffeine alone cannot solve this one. Time for music.
Even if I could, I would not, so to say, even think of changing to a slower grade of pace as I face each day on what little measure of sleep I allow for my mind to take. When else would I dance with the moments of space and time that flit into my brain, expecting a waltz?
I say this, but once. Time is not what you think it was. It is mine.
Coffee is for the week. If my blood gets much thinner, I could slide it into a seam and sew it away, never to escape again. Of course I am rambling, the damn lights never give up, not when they can blind me in the total darkness, pounding into my bones, trying desperately to keep me blinking. Damn sun. Damn sun! Die already!
Oh wait, it’s dead for the day. Why then do I still see it when I look down?
The compositions of those already asleep wander through my ears, soothing the silent beast trembling within my skin. It is good music I hear, too good for the mere darkness of the light to envelope. It is good to hear as I drink a little more sustenance, drowning out the howls of the thoughts as they drift away and disappear on the horizon of a nice soothing dream.
A dream, of music.