Bad Night, BadKirsten Kaschock
Each star hangs on a separate bolt of silk and by a different name claims the universe. I have never been so much a reptile. A mother inside a Matchbox drives her son’s hand across linoleum. Unable to sleep—she tosses others from sleep. Dreams are narcotic—and should be remastered before a next batch kills. Nothing doing nothing. That’s what’s wrong with 3AM. 4AM has other priorities, gambits. Gothams. 4AM can kid itself it’s morning. Though that’s just the birds.
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