Off the western edge of his bed, there were boxes of broken light bulbs, and tapes binding teary fronts of books. And burnt pages were settled snugly into the air particles that scattered at the beat of a hand.
Face in, and tongue out, he hollowed the vessels in his eyes to be a screen for tears, for them to somehow appear, suddenly he felt blindes by his drowsiness, and his eyelids began closing in, lips quivering tragically. Wholly and coolly lit radium pumped stickers were killing the silhouettes of darkness, and he was living easily off the stars and the moon cut in quarters. He pushed everything away, and paused at the globe in the handles of his dancing fingertips, and so it came to a crash, and he came to be slow, and to lay beside his pillow, with his head clothed by his blanket, feeling Netflix infected.
He wanted blackness and surprise in the midst of his nerves and his tension, while the ceiling of his room wheeled above, the fan driving wind into his mouth open with a vacuuming yawn, and his legs still were seismic, and his stomach was folded as he curved and flipped in his throes of sleeplessness.