Tenderest of roman poets

[crows]

There’s an increasing, slow, heavy feeling now every time I pull myself around in the dream scape. No flight, no joy, just heaviness and this sensation of disintegration.

All I remember from the last two, one last night and one yesterday during a two-hour fit of requisite unconsciousness (even though my head still feels sick, and I can’t quite pin it to the physical or the psyche)

Row us out to Desanzano… to your Sirmione row…

Maybe all I want is to be taken away.