Today I'll tout my love of the impermanent, chaotic life ineffectively: 
bullets through the hypnotic waters of a dream, slowing but never stopping,
mocking in the shadows of doorways that I'll never quite make it through before I wake.
Impermanence doesn't fill a bed where thinking stops to rest a while, so feeling's free to tread,
and smug debate victory doesn't pull the sun above horizons built on one-night stands
sheets feel absolute: one thousand cuts, one thousand hands.

it doesn't have to make sense, sometimes you just feel a certain way about a certain thing, and although it's not immediate, you know it's coming. You're just never guaranteed to know how many tides high, or when to start running, or when to stop.