in the deadin' hours of the night... or in the new born mornin'

it's basically nothin' at all. like writin' a line after a lot of thinkin' n' then strikin' it out immediately. specially if it's a first line. like writin' somethin' like this in the deadenin' hours of the night or... in the new born mornin'. maybe together. when you've a letter to end but you start with this. your thoughts wrappin' each of your thoughts. maybe you too. your greatest fear n' desire is someone strippin' all your thoughts. but know you do... nakedness is not always beautiful.

a sight you love... you never see it n' that's different. two hands filled with bags mostly bring smiles. openin' them n' layin' them out is perhaps a greater joy. changin' your shirt to match your sweater is not sanity at all. doin' it in the deadenin' hours of the night... or in the new born mornin' is totally out of the senses. writin' it down is oh-so-crazy.

there's so much of me in myself... but still amazed by this resembled unrecognition or recognized disemblance. it's just like watchin' me lyin' down... seein' me. n' seein' nothin' like me. n' then slowly turnin' like me. but the pause is just for a while. n' then i turn away.

it's like the pencil song in perfect silence... in the deadenin' hours of the night... or in the new born mornin'. because when the world wakes... the pencil refuses to sing. it's like people comin' n' starin' at you... n' then slowly turnin' away. it's like the endings startin' again. it's like the forgetfulness of life... but rememberin' it all over again when someone asks you the way. it's like confusion holdin' your last breath.. when your senses have already volunteered indifference. it's like statues in the rain. because statues in the rain are just like the stones in your pockets. no one else is like them... n' they're like no one else. they're always there. n' they're not.