the book with no genre,
the play with no drama,
the eye with no cornea.
The land of dreams
that’s dead at the seems.
It’s strange to live inside,
because in a way, to hide,
is to be what you are inside.
Left to your own devices,
you learn your own rights and
treat yourself right.
The darkness may engulf
everything but the midnight wolf,
and yet you know you’re still there,
undaunted by the suffocating air.
So welcome to insomnia, dear old friend,
where sewing machine operators make amends.
It’s a strange place and a strange world,
since nothing ever comes slowly; it’s always hurled
at time-warping speeds, right at your face, until it’s
So welcome to insomnia, prisoner
Keep your thoughts to yourself,
keep the dust off the shelf,
and please take your shoes off.