These are my molecules. Dreams. They've scored a trough the breadth of mind; Nile of white matter, Ganges of grey. Motes arise. Bulbs of inner levity. They pulse. Burst. Quake by their own right. In the morning I stand inert by the pane, see the white and the dim and the going slant. I haven't been sound for some time. I've been portioned. Timber sheared, gone to other places. Countless hours (these persistent infinities) won't touch my viscera...