Nothing happens.

I wished for insomnia,

now I got it–

Fuck–

What do I do

I hate punctuation

I deplore the clock, the bombers–

I mean numbers it sends to my eyes–

All of it.

Think there’s a direction, some hall

for me to go down.

Heard a bell,

time for class,

I think,

but then I blink, between the

screen and the reality gleam–

I wanted more time, now, laying on

this couch, I’m like, fuck.. Too much.