half_asleep_poem_sixty_nine raze the house stops when the day gathers night. sure enough, i am an archaic pile of words on these walls, suspended in the magic of mid-air. i don't know if it's more accurate to call them "selves", or to stick with "little worlds". and if the journey we're told is true, we're out of sun, but it's in our system. you're supposed to feel cold and unimportant to me. why don't you? 240707 what's it to you? who go blather from