The facts of
the mattress never get laid to rest. Third of our allotted time, devoted to its
silent ministrations, forgets such sea-smooth surface. They whom we picture
stretched upon its highness are creatures of night in this sunstruck world. He,
horizontal, feels his brain tip fear-fuelled dream-schemes that, vertical, have
poured back into nothing crevices. She’s grateful for everything emptied from
her mind, slipping back to front her October shockarama. You are not keeping
count of time’s embraces, plead only for a place to rest your head. I recline
here myself some afternoons, imagining other ways life could be.
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