When I lay down and none can wake me. When I’m between the covers. I hear that song, transporting me to places unknown. Translating me to words unspoken. It’s easier to be here, in the in-between. A blank sheet snuck in an unreadable tome. Unfound. Ever bound for the false, in love with the error, and thoroughly a-historical. No one to riot, I am my own private revolution, every day. I would kill for a cup of tea in the land of cotton. Quitting is not a job, it’s a passion. This is the intermediate realm of passion, half awake, half dead. I open my eyes to gaze inside, to see the thing that brought me here. A monument of failure that looks exactly like myself.