and then our exile

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I have slept for four-and-three-quarter hours. it is 10:33am. in half a minute, i wander over to biology. for now, though, i am experimenting with making up my own cliches. i mislike using those of others--they seem stale, somehow, like frozen cheese. Hmm. and crumbles of mistakes scattered over bread--they say it gives it spice. I say I am my own spice. Why eat i it, then? This is a quandrary.

There is a time (not beyond the sprinklings of rain, but beyond the limits of convention) of night wherein one feels normal and embarks upon a merry one-foot-forward-one-foot-sideways dance of evasion and the quarry flirtatiously stops always just beyond one's reach. And then later one is light-headed and speaks of Russeau with a Trusseau; Mantesquieu in an apple-cherry. And then all is in clarity and irises pass through the periphary, to lie in the dark. The fuzziness, the twitching of a leg-appendage; a raw throat and buzzing behind one's eyes. and sleep. This i have observed: staying up late without altering inverse reality.
Four deer walked past our window. They were nice.