2 january

above these lines i see a note scribbled last night by my own hand but not in my own writing -- pressed between lids of sleep and the certainty of a dream that would spin into a fine tale if given the opportunity to breathe past dark -- and yet i cannot do more than honor them briefly as i am pressed between invisible forces -- vices pressing my temples at some sinful prayer too heavy for sundays and too overladen to be holy -- only the dark will help and these lines will wait as well, deeper still --