it is weird. usually being in a the big bookstore calms me down. now it tires me. i am presented with endless possibilities. possibilities. a house full of shelves full of unrealized possibilities, too many for a lifetime to read or live, because those possibilities are lives that can be lived. lived sounds really similar to left.
to die to sleep, perhaps to dream. the old man, the bard, is in a book too. enclosed in many books, hoping to catch his essence, parts of lives poured into attempting to understand him. yet he will always be dead, or nonexistent maybe at all, if he is indeed an amalgamation of several lives as some of them say.
they cannot catch him. this is as calming as the stars that will always be there, no matter what happens here (or close enough to always, compared to a human lifespan).
i can see the city from the window of the bus. the city is aflare with lights, attempts to prolong the time, to delay the inevitable. it is visible from space maybe. it is like a beacon, as scream to the universe at large: we are here, we don't sleep. we are alive. we defy you.
the universe does not care. it smirks, maybe, at most.
delaying the inevitable. delaying sleep.
i need sleep. I am tired.
sleep is but temporary death. randall, a bard of our time, said it first. hallucinations, then amnesia.
do you fear death, jack sparrow? there used to be a lot more sparrows in the city. now they are dead, I suppose. evolution taking it's course.
this bus goes round and round, making it's circles through the city. like earth.
you have to move on.
