the flowers sleeping in their beds

my favorite way to watch tv is through strangers’ windows when i’m walking by their houses at night
everyone’s life unfolds one hour at a time, no matter how monotonous or sensational their story ultimately is. days roll into weeks melt into months fade into years—we’re all just victims of time
the moral of the story is that the story isn’t over yet so we don’t know what this parable is warning against
albert goldbarth said the sciences sing a lullaby but i feel like if physics is saying, “of course you’re tired” to me right now, its tone is mocking. feeling much more jeffrey mcdaniel: “a broken promise in a pawn shop”. then again, goldbarth also had that bit about creation and death being the same story at different velocities so maybe i’m just approaching 127 is all
there’s something comforting in the permanence of impermanence, the consistency of constant chaos. sleep is a mistress with whom i have a tumultuous relationship at best but god, when we get it right? the best sex i’ve ever had is a full night’s sleep.

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