Sleep Deprivation

I've been awake for hours, and all through the night, I could not imagine morning, the day as it turned out to be, so hard to grasp, in truth, lies, imagination, the copied moments seemed so real... like life, with men walking down the subway platform, shivering like ghosts, in formulaic pale, whizzing transparent as a dream escaping into reality, and what can you really do? In delirium, but keep writing, living, as seaweed suspended in water like hair flowing out of liquid bedroom walls... this can't be right, but left of me there's nothing, save a voice that echoes on either side of my head, signaling stereo brain damage to my muse, who in turn tells me to keep writing, because it's an opportunity to let some new experience expose in the light of day, like an untouched photograph of a man you met once at a bar, and God.. he had the craziest stories- like this one time, the fool didn't sleep for a hundred hours, because he felt like he was wasting his time, and so he invested it, and lost everything in a gambling match with his health, wound up ten days later with no recollection of enlightenment, hopped up on Thorazine and broker than a camel, sleeping on straw coloured hair, recounting everything in fragmented sections, from the broad side of a pillow, with love, and a fragile psyche, but he's psycho, and sees text as background to fantasy, passing out... --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I litterally passed out after writing this, this is the now edited version.