into the layers of mattress and pillte posumae we dived. mattress batting us about the knob; falling, falling. where does it stop?
the philtered light comes from around, no source discovered no matter found. but we fall to it, all abound. astounded that we can be in this falling state, amoung bedded wares and nightdream bares.
and with a swipe or two of our cottong-knit seems we land to the bottom of a fiber-mill stream.
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