the sun draws fifty eight patches of morning on my pillow and twenty nine shadows and i need movement. i need movement to breathe and sleep and everything involuntary but thats not what i feel. i feel a lesser animation churning in circles and screaming for air inside my stomach. nothing changes, its me and myself and bones of real except in my respects sincere is the glass behind my eyes, and normal is the hair on my hands. i dont need normal. what my head thinks and what my mouth talks are two opposite colours, red and blue. thats why i bury myself in red behind the doors and under blankets and wherever else the dark falls and thats how i need movement; abnormal and unnatural so i can paint my mouth red.