God I hate it when this happens. I need to write, I have this crazy inspiration energy and I cannot contain it. I just recieved an overload of about 400 ideas and have scribbled the life out of about 8 post-it notes and I don't want to let any of it slip away. Yet, I'm also too tired to sufficiently become a conduit for one of these ideas. Tomorrow morning... yes, that's it. Rest well... the main jist of the ideas is now littering the computer desk, and I'll wake up early, take a walk and get a latte, and then focus. Because I'm ill and falling over. In fact, it might be the medicine I'm on that is the culprit for all of this lunacy. However, I think I like this short little poem I just created. It's nowhere near finished, but here goes anyway.
When sleeping my eyelids become the screens for the inner-head dream-projector. White square, clicking frames passing by. I see you, my tin man doubled over and sobbing. Close up now, metal glints sparkle through a flowing crystalline fault line, seeping into gears, dissolving lubrication, freezing your frame in black and white Kansas. And I am your rusted oil can, an o-eight-hundred hour drive away.