The Artist
"Love, will you turn out the lights?"
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Exhaustion doesn't lead me to sleep anymore. Exhaustion leads me to the frustration of the night.
Night; the most relentless of any time. The day has its sun, its light and glory. It has its people and action and consequence. Night brews mares, even for the conscious. Action is personified to all animates, all inexistent. And I don't sleep anymore. I draw a blank and pretend to catch rest. Eyes shut sealed stress. Face pressed breathless to a slipping descend. But I'm fooling to pass the repetitive drudge of 360's and tangles.
Unconsciousness doesn't erase, doesn't remove. It pauses you for a moment, drenched down to your mattress. Lovers live for a night on the mattress.
It's the closest thing to deactivating time.
Night; the most relentless of any time. The day has its sun, its light and glory. It has its people and action and consequence. Night brews mares, even for the conscious. Action is personified to all animates, all inexistent. And I don't sleep anymore. I draw a blank and pretend to catch rest. Eyes shut sealed stress. Face pressed breathless to a slipping descend. But I'm fooling to pass the repetitive drudge of 360's and tangles.
Unconsciousness doesn't erase, doesn't remove. It pauses you for a moment, drenched down to your mattress. Lovers live for a night on the mattress.
It's the closest thing to deactivating time.
_
