2002-07-08 - ?:?? AM

Consciousness slips away like a wet fish being grasped by tiny hands, jumping high in the air to inevitably land in a sea of sleep. The fish of consciousness drowns in this impeding body of water. All waking coherance scrapes away like the brocolli on a young child's dinner plate.
We battle sleep like we battle conventional understanding, brandishing thick crude clubs at the belly of drowsiness. All we are trying to do is become real. Or unreal. Or surreal.
Our choice of prefix unhooks itself and smashes on the ground, an incongruent blue and white china plate that never fit into ones collection. One thousand members of a jury fail to care. We are ants, pushing bits of charcoal across the desert, trying to become real. Or otherwise.
One hour smashes into the next, a trainwreck of digital time and neon letters. Everything becomes so thin that it holds a kind of thickness, imploding backwards into feathers and maple syrup.
Looking at life as if through wet wax paper, we sing soliloquies about honeysuckle daydreams as the world breaks like waves upon a shore.
There is no now like this now, there is no space like this quickly fading space, and there is no god like yourself. Today closes up like a tulip, so that tomorrow can never exist.