My Own Private Insomnia.
You’ve gotta be silent in order not to wake the devils up. Invisible insects and you and your empty cups. Tonight is fenouil-proof! Like the ones before. You’ve always liked that linden smell anyway. Maybe because once upon a time in the past; ‘your skin smells linden’ you were told. Now that feels warm. No? Time is kicking seeming a bit shy below the darkness. You wish you had some linden and Elliott Smith.
