Fear Of Sleep

How does a thing come of anything? What want I try? I slip that template. What rabbit? All these yes to the busted yes. All these wish to get frowned on and records in my hair. These red phrases. These collected hues and tin pipes plunk me down at a family door. In the mirror I switch to my old face. I switch back. The story is only beginning, but I still fear sleep. Poor ruin for fate, for the charm of making, for trains. Canals and laugh tracks, jukebox betrothed, do the end sway.