Sol Seppy

There is a whole world out there. If I play this song over and over, maybe the world will trickle down into my mind and pool there, before the warmth of desire and fascination evaporate all my memories and I slip into dreaming, my screen-like vision perfumed with jasmine and the bloody love funk of a plump sunset.
I care less and less if I make sense. I care less and less if the story has a readable plot. I care less and less that my mental robes are slipping, leaving my grandiose apparitions exposed. Physical and mental exhaustion are similar to grief in that they suspend the usual social barriers. Suddenly there is an excuse to be real. You are at once numb and raw, pulsing with the tiniest vibrations but not clinging to them. You let the moments pass by you and through you, the butler of your vacant curiosity working the door, showing each flicker of life in and out.
Welcome. Goodnight. Come in. Take care. Nice to see you. Goodbye.