farcical, really. punctually in time for lunch. Incredible, to watch your own feet as they walk down the street, onto the railway station, through the train, into the auto, and finally back to your room, hundreds of miles away - all through your goddess who breathes blood epiphany otherwise crossword clue - journey - where you were never really awake, although you thought you were, faithfully reproducing and here and there over here meander pilgrimage gardens damask roses carved into the translucent mosque libraries of xanaduesque symphonic samarqand- and you dancing in the rain eyes soaked through with the rain and yet unbearably happy, bid the older unfolding double helix a grateful goodbye and sink inspector abberline, an eerie regularity, in truth knowing unforgettably yet with zilch understanding that these days that go by are nothing but an interminable waiting for that which (looking up at the mid-day sun) is darker than an ascetic's library that hasn't been dusted in aeons.

linen. marquee. despair articulates itself in a zone of disintegrating meaning where only the most mvnch-esque vibrations survive. an instant of painful pin-prick spotless awareness that my mind in the end repeatedly writes the same, single thought, repeating eternally the same words over and over again, the same early dawn 3 am angst - bogged down thick viscous revelry at the horrific slime which covers all the walls, rises up inexorably higher every passing hour absorbing my feet, my pen, my notebook and eventually