Nocturnals, Interfacing

                       A golden shovel from Max Ritvo’s ‘Dawn of Man.’

Felt weird, very weird, which you clarified & in clarity I

rebranded surreal & creepy. Creepy, yes! as I am called

out into night & can’t look directly at the waitress that

brings me pancakes or the cashiers caught in this same time

of madness with me. Night-shift faces, everyone overwhelmed

by backwards walking, by warp. December will be here soon with

its dangerous finality, while how I’ll hook myself to the

earth with enough strength to drag myself & resident ghosts

through tomorrow is an unknown. I am trapped in a universe of

unknowns, & the worst part of that is recognizing others, my

nearly confessed to no ones. Back, half-drowned, water wings

deflated, to absorb the kindness of not being asked about sleep.

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