Belinda, I'm numb to it now.
Mobie sat shiftless in the corner armchair. He considered making some pleasantries with the others, but they seemed so far away now. Those dancing girls, those giggling churls--and the boys, all trying to inch up a little closer.
Morpheus ever taunts. There's nothing worse than the moments before you sleep. The moments when you're trying. You're standing on the bank and you're grasping a tree branch in one hand and your reaching out for the rim of a rowboat. The people in your dreams are all ready to embark downstream. They are waiting for you and you're just trying to reach them. It's so simple and so elusive. Sometimes you wake up and forget.
Maybe a restless river of minor revelations sweeps over you. You seem to hit upon something good, maybe even great, but then you wake up and it doesn't make sense. Nothing makes more sense in a reverie. Floating down the River Nile. The rushes and the women watching, the peasants washing, and maybe the merchants milling in their longboats, bursting with baskets of spices and trinkets, oils, wines, and instruments.
The River Nile. I remember it well. Your name was written on the water there. The river runs north and like you, it never stops running. Belinda, please say no more. We've passed those sad-eyed lovers in the street and heard that bitter banter. Your name doesn't ring halcyon to me now. Your kisses are nothing like they were. I don't believe it anymore. And that smile: Belinda, I'm numb to it now.
Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Morpheus ever taunts. There's nothing worse than the moments before you sleep. The moments when you're trying. You're standing on the bank and you're grasping a tree branch in one hand and your reaching out for the rim of a rowboat. The people in your dreams are all ready to embark downstream. They are waiting for you and you're just trying to reach them. It's so simple and so elusive. Sometimes you wake up and forget.
Maybe a restless river of minor revelations sweeps over you. You seem to hit upon something good, maybe even great, but then you wake up and it doesn't make sense. Nothing makes more sense in a reverie. Floating down the River Nile. The rushes and the women watching, the peasants washing, and maybe the merchants milling in their longboats, bursting with baskets of spices and trinkets, oils, wines, and instruments.
The River Nile. I remember it well. Your name was written on the water there. The river runs north and like you, it never stops running. Belinda, please say no more. We've passed those sad-eyed lovers in the street and heard that bitter banter. Your name doesn't ring halcyon to me now. Your kisses are nothing like they were. I don't believe it anymore. And that smile: Belinda, I'm numb to it now.
Sleep, sleep, sleep.
posted by Lord Horatio at 4:54 PM
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