You and me, we're creatures of the night. 

All the things in my life are covered with a thick layer of dust. Motes and radiowaves, from our skin to our skeleton. We are brilliant at night, when no one can tell why our outline is just a blur. That's when all things are just a blur. 

The daylight hours, we are dumb and slow; we're hungover memories and broken piano keys. We're a black keyboard that just won't stay clean, no matter how many manic minutes were spent using us the night before. 

Used, indeed. Well-used, well-oiled machines of industry. Juxtaposition and contradiction. Politics and economics. Alternate emphasis, starvation, and empty masturbation.

Life lived in lusty thoughts, us dusty knots
in trees of time with too many roots.
Too many fathers. 

There's only one of us. One in a million of a million tongues stuck to the roof of your mouth with peanut butter and shame, standing awkwardly, pretending to be statues.
It feels like sleep paralysis. But we're all awake.

Each and every one of us dies standing up, caught in a doorway. Which one of us are caught there? one in a million.
the day you die is when you find out there's only one of you left.