Time Out

the self says it is time to go ashore and on the island to the tent made of that skin too thin forever crawls into the sleeping-bag with freezing dreams buttons me up right to the brain pulls indolence up over all the senses bends sensitivity tightly round my axis rolls it up into a ball like playing in my lap makes me probingly rotate it round and round till finally it tosses blobs of colors up into my head where splinters glide in mirrored patterns like the pieces in kaleidoscopes and the old almost familiar galaxies are circling round black holes