At 3 in the morning I realize how much time I have wasted.
I will waste some more.
I look at pictures, mine and yours.
I can always slice away at un-selves caked onto me, in the mornings.
I want to wail.
I rise.
Laconia.
My brilliance, they tell me, will never let me be.
But, but, but.
I don’t want a Gala.
All fall down.
Distend.