quand l'insomnie vient...

"Hello cowboy" kissed Morgan his reflection, leaving a trace on the cracked mirror. He wished he could punch a hole through that mirror, big enough to go through and hug the lonely lad with the faded torn jeans just barely hanging on to his skinny ass. There was a heavy sigh, and a coloured electrochoc.

      The sparkles made Morgan jump so high he went backwards, and dug himself a hole in the ground witht the force of the impact. Looking up, he started to laugh hysterically as he realised how cosy a grave was, and that nothing beyond the rectangle limited sky of this new and perfect bed could be worth the sweat of clawing himself back through. Not that sweat was repulsice, some genius shrink would probably sometime soon say that sweat is like the wet warmness of the womb and that through our perspiration, we communed with our inner self, back when we were all crooked seahorses in the belly of our neighbours' old dog. Some kind of deep, totally twisted heap of awe-inducing lung vibration that would make Consumidor's dull eyes open a little wider within their greasy and slow orbits, and its legs lead it to the nearest bookshop to sell its body for a written version of this new version of holey scriptures, and its embryo scar would then rotate back to a couch within collapsing distance, and Consumidor's brain would fuzz as its eyes crossed with concentration and its lips moved while it read a simplified version, corresponding to its race, sex, religious beliefs, hair colour and favorite type of toilet seat. Consumidor would finally start the Blessed Perspiration, go to sleep feeling small within its headache, and wake up feeling cultivated and fashionably sweaty. Morgan's thoughts had not gone half the distance of these tedious sequences, and had evaporated to a better place as clouds glazed lightly over the surface of Morgan's eyes. His tongue darted out in the full splendor of its blueness for a lick of the blood that was lazily caressing his lips; clouds often gave him nosebleeds, but at least his tongue was blue.

                 From the depth of his improvised tomb, the sound of a lion's grumble attenuated by a blossom of flu softly tickled his ears, almost drowning out the sound of the ticking seconds produced by the clock that some enthusiastic god had hammered onto Morgan's left temple. he grumbled in return, felt the lion not and eat another of his alveoles with a slight pinch to the chest, and he settled again, drinking in the blood sensually flowing between his teeth. "What i need, Morgan pretended to thin, is to put some boots on. then no one can bite my toe, and hell can wait while i stay in my hole for the sun to turn green. because yellow is not brown enough, and i have enough red to fill a page of a history lesson."

The sky, in a way which it was not accustomed to, obeyed Morgan's thoughts immediately, if briefly.

             A green version of the Morgan down the tomb let himself fall on top of the Morgan down the hole, with the elegance of a broken dream.