This stale wine severs self from self inhaling, I glide the long greasy currents to you to your bright box of bees, all still till axle-fed by drink. Faces matter for a while. Limbs seem to prove the mouthís kaleidoscope and most tunes are harmonious. Opal eye, sunk aspirin-lid swirling gem in the wineís dark fire - all toasts all fine till the mantle slips: already blossom drips from the plastic tabletop and time moves out of spite. Why canít we stay awake all night? Why must we work, and pay and lose sight, forego our starry origins and harden into crust? The night was not made for sleeping. The glass retains nothing but rust and thereís not enough time to stay upright.

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