HE SINGS THE SONGS OF HIMSELF
He is numb and disconnected. Shadows pass his window, but they keep their distance, keep their peace. There is blood on his forehead - the marking of time, there is blood racing through his ears - the passage of time. Sitting on the bed, hands on his knees, he chants with the effort of breathing, chants the seven songs of life. He has time - he smiles - he always has time. He can be young, he can be old, he can be ocean spread, or sky trained - it's all part of the linen-shrouded journey. The dead will never rise, because the dead - they never sleep. We are oceans of breeze, he thinks - we are oceans of so much breeze. He remains on the bed, hands on his knees. There is no sleep for him, his eyes are wide open...but he does dream. There are beaches and seashells, there are trees and nests, there are mountains and scarecrows. All life in a glow of a dream, the billow of a sheet, the stroke of a finger. He smiles at the futility, at the grandeur of the futility. All is a dream he whispers, all is but a dream. Sitting on the bed, hands on his knees, he sings the songs of himself.
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