that a world where sleeping is a crime is a good world.
We will not be conviced into thinking that a world where people live and die by the sword is a good world.
I want to live on the Black Lizard Planet where there is neither royalty nor the poor.
(Nor this feeling inside my stomach, twisting like glowing cavorite spilling out and encasing my innards.)
Not midnight and sleepy, woken at twelve slept at twelve why is this number such a dangerous one?
One to not get used to, one that I keep wishing for and chasing after.
When will it be enough?
My muscles are cavernous in a way my stomach is not, hungering for rest. To be unwound and law, effortless.
Exhaling and then they are tightening.
Twelve hours for bread to rise, sunrise to sunset and into the oven to be baked, fresh for the next day.
I am trying, cried the voice,
I am trying.
And I swept the voice aside with a finger to my lips telling them to -hush now.
Children should be seen and not heard.
In some cases, not seen at all.
What should I name the ache that flutters about inside me, making me shiver like the cold wind through the window?
I am not convinced at all.
But no one needs conviction to do this.
And we trundle along, heedless and unneeded as another wound, a kick to a downed child.