The sleeper, real and dear, is carved on the dark.
Minerals of sleep are travelling into him.
Travelling out of him.
Signal leps in his wrist.
Caught to me, caught to my nerve.
The sleeper, real and dear, is carved on the dark.
Minerals of sleep are travelling into him.
Travelling out of him.
Signal leps in his wrist.
Caught to me, caught to my nerve.
“When I write it’s almost as if I’m in a waking hallucination even though I’m aware that I’m consistently dealing with certain kinds of motifs, like the cosmic egg, or twins, or monkeys, or the problem of power. The only thing that’s different is that, having done it before and survived, I know I can do it again. Psychologically, then, it’s easier; from a technical standpoint, it’s not. If anything, there seem to be more challenges.”
Rikki Ducornet