A world flaccid inertia stands idle during the nights of raucous purring. It rolls slowly into a painful night, as drunkards roll along a gutter. Needy of sleep complaints mount long, tortured sulfur fumes and oily which expire through the pores of this feverish world. This is a punitive sleep therapy, a sentence imposed for its own survival, as knock down a dangerous man, before the drugs to neutralize it. These sleep a person gets is a few pills of the pain, not usually remain a few tortured hallucinations, and several crumpled sheets of cold sweat rings. And slid the world, placid in its free fall, and bows with delight in a gentle decline, sweetened morphine.
its surface agitated unnecessarily tightrope haggard. Their empty eyes are full of insolent belief, opulent aberrations obstructing their vision. Right in front of them, vulgar, conviction to be important, and the certainty of having a role to play. Belief to exist by the sense of duty, have a destiny, not to be insignificant. Each morning they are not few, and in the evening when the light fades, they walk backwards again these few people meters. Thus their life oscillates, tirelessly, at the discretion of the tides of their ambition and their contentment. When death approaches, the pendulum slows. And then she caught him, exasperated by the emptiness of this agitation, and freezes forever in the oblivion glue.
A hand before their eyes, they describe their voices too high, with aplomb the world they do not see. Lining mirrors the walls of their life, thinking speakers, they are illiterate.
But you do not worry, let the world sleep. I'll often see behind the scenes. You will walk with caution, you do not dream. We share the dark hours out of the spotlight. You pull a few strings of these puppets heavy, hand stands, head turns. But the eyes are glassy and the hand is cold. Your affection still stumbles on a dummy, and plays from the sidelines you sometimes you make statements that blowers. Their booklet in hand, recite pledges about to die later in the room asleep, and you sat cross-legged on a speaker phone, you get drunk.
Somnambulists tonight are all the movies, prisoners of chair and force-feeding of images. Are projected onto their eyelids calorie films that struggle to fill their hunger for ideas. Lulled by the pictures they dive into their fantasies fat bulimic. They are condemned without mercy forever spectators off.
But you do not worry, sleep leaves the world behind the camera, you paint the lives of others. You picked the present and arranged in a bouquet. You cut and glue pictures of you real canvas and suddenly appears on your future. Nights during the blades you invent possible and I look every morning to discover that the feverish bloom date. You caress the screen, where knocking fools, fooled by the illusion, and you see them falling, leaning against the wall they take to the skyline. Then you go out of your pocket a pencil and you draw on the screen windows and doors. The crowds are engulfed, so goes the world of caves in the abyss.
World at telephone messages left impersonal. Responders égrainent solitary words drown in the sound wave. They make fun phrases, proud to have spoken, and go back to sleep happy. Words that are taken by the handful throws in his ear, as children threw themselves on the beach sand. They really think that stones, balanced random work out perfectly, grandiose monuments? One by one they got up, struck by an idea, and very strong repeat what they just heard. The voicemail hungry are silent, totally silent. Still others hang themselves.
But you do not worry, let the world sleep. And you want to hand the tapes where words come expire aborted. Through the clear plastic tape, you can examine the ideas. One by one you loosen them, you take sounds, words, notes, and you sew slowly human stories. Alone in the silence, you perceive the agreements, slow melodies. You swing slowly on these strings sound in harmony tightrope you progress in measured steps. And gradually you take confidence, aware also of the fragility of your happiness, the unlikelihood of your good fortune.
But the night is still going and for how long? In the silence, in darkness behind the scenes, we watch quietly, surrounded by the sweet scents of summer nights. Soon a light
sharp crack eye of this world asleep. Then we miss these moments unreal, where we lived together in a world that is sleeping?
