It’s 2:24 a.m. Are you asleep? Did you flip the pillow, settle your cheek, bliss out to the sound of your heartbeat in the down? Does your back hurt? Is your temple damp with tears? Are you fighting, fucking, necking, coming, sleep-jamming to Mr. Manning’s radio while the street lights wash your PJs white and red? Will anybody love you? Will you die before the dawn? Is it Mardi Gras in dreamland, all foil beads and thongs? Is a black hole forming in the space behind the morning, sucking your joy away. Will you wake up muddled, gritty and befuddled under that lumbering silence, that shuddering stillness, that unholy oneness that makes your molars ache. Turn your head; your eyeballs drag along behind and ponderously alight: curtain, blanket, closet, door . . . Your house is crackers and sugar-glass, one small bad wolf with a squirt-gun could melt the whole thing down. It’s 2:26 a.m., are you sleeping now?
How’s your sleep?