Letters on the Night

Another night and no sleep, the black winged heat beating the skull into reticulated and endless queries. That trembling line between ritual and addiction, this humanity of angels, or the angelization of certain people at times to aid our desperate prayed for needing.

Reading Cortazar's "Hopscotch." Intriguing. After many fancy flips between the odd literated chapters, I suddenly realized I was reading, not just the ideas or narrative, but the flow of language as its own content. A thread of meter and assonance I had not picked out before, not completely in Cortazar's court, as I've been reversiting a faerie-tale I haven't wrote on in ages (Itelf a gnarled romp of synchronated cryptomorphoses). Honing gist to the mill of microphonal pages, I wanted to dream tonight, and write them out before work. Instead I get letters and rhyme schemes and for the third time should just go to bed.