Only so many odes to insomnia

Happiness writes white, and the engorged ego lays it down in purplish prose, like a picked-free tick bursted by the flame from a hastily scratched match.

I agree that all is not lost. Deep in the cavity of overdetermined mind space I sit, where imagined conversations and do over conversations and mortification forces feast, eyes closed but thoughts racing across an empty sparse big-skyed plain with no finish line in sight. If only darkness brought blankness, Without pills or any other dulling agent applies to the wound.