lately, fatigue has become the lover i lost. the folly of sleep grants a kind of satisfaction that leaves me half numb, half energized for the day's duties. when i sink into the arms at last of the black beauty called night, i hear a high pitch tone, like singing of angels in the distance of dreams. that's where my grief is met by relief.
all darkness is warm. it swells, it allows me to breathe. i lay on my makeshift mattress of hay and moldening brushwood, the packbeasts aside me meditating on their ruminated foray through the moss; and i... and i - - - ...there is body parts on me i feel pleasantly ruminating, too.
i awake in the middle of darkness, with the camp fires barely glowing. there is a buzz and stir and cricketing crackle, marking it's presence all over the place, as if my desires and wishes have grown tentacles out of my heart, filling the air with happy chit-chatter and flirring a dance of illusions in front of my eyes, that no blue salt could ever cause proper: the night critters are on, two by two, and "beautiful" is all i can think, is all that life, is all that is.