Window open to the street, I let the cooling morning creep in to steal the heat from my bones. The shivering is strange in May, but this mania is ripe.
Cigarettes and tap water and other things that don't put me to sleep. Not having steady income and my insurmountable shame and other things that keep me awake. This hollowness is strange in May, but this mania is ripe.
Frost-cracked asphalt splinters in the howling sun. Too much light for the air to hold. Too much heat to share with one another, so we endeavor to blot out our days. When day is also night, perhaps I will sleep. This sleeplessness is strange in May, but this mania is ripe.
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