2am
chill tightens around the screen
like a celsius of snake
menacing an egg,
my eyes twin fidgets in the yolk,
so small.
from here to the depths of Cetus,
the only lamp is this dim square,
bugaboo of joules,
spooky against the feral flesh
of the night.
my hands run like spiders,
do not ‘straddle the velvet’
as my mind perceives to wish,
contemplating as i am
the flight the Dipper.
no thread attached to the real
as i click to glibly type
fast as i can in this uncertain place,
lost in the qualms of a somewhat sleep
which hints at death.
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