I sleep with the lights on.

I'm sick and tired. I'm allergic to home (or Lexington) and I've caught up with the cold I've been running round a circle away from. The cold slipped out somewhere between the cracking of me by a cycle of no sleep, showing off shining city in the rain, or sick rum-mates. So curled in unfurled sleeping bag been dreaming the day away. Circadian rhythyms are off. With school off, all's off. It's strange being home. I don't really exist here. My world waits in New Haven. Home, here's love and comfort, but in the quotidian I don't count, I'm gone. Gone but I don't know where, I'm lost in space. Space reverberates with old ghosts. A chorus of Sam's sing selves of nineteen years. In a dialogue of one, I'm inescapable. Orgo is a poor distraction as drift to dreams. Sleep is no escape from subconcious. I keep going round and round in the same old circle. The same themes reoccur more than every half hour. The game reveals the repetition without variation of my mind. Worse because there's no no inside says Freud. Cannot remember to not think about the game, the past. Instead I'm trying to own my own harmonies of memories. Still at the end of the photo album, looking back, I get lost in space that goes on forever. There's the danger of infinite regress but I don't want to regress to seven or seventeen. I believe it's you that could make it better, but it's not. It's not. It's not. As safe as home is from everything but myself, I don't want to go back to the womb. Sometimes I'm sick and tired of being. But not now. Catching up on sleep but I'm ready when I wake with the lights on to throw myself into learning new songs and going where to go.