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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

The night remained a cadaverous sort of stillness, and I was sure that the entire world was asleep as Prowler was wont to curl up into a semi-puddle of hums and purrs beside me. Inside however, was a frantic clockwork of Imagination beetles on teeter-totters with my (favourite) colour-coded metaphors along the deltas of thought. If not for automatic timers, I was pretty sure the synapses of my neural activity would have powered a row of street lamps.

Like fairy lights, but more expansive.

All I had to do was blink and words would dissolve between and beneath pen and paper through the eyes of Dali, and my immediate cosmos would become a pretty, polymorphic cocktail of daydreams in Death’s night.

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