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Basement of Sleepers



You know that feeling you get when you're alone, maybe in an empty home, and you feel comfort beneath the radiant hymn of a bathroom rug's atmosphere? As in you have no business being there. You simply lie on the floor drifting into a beautiful coma where life's complexities is exhanged for not a thought but sound. I didn't think I could find this feeling in a public setting. I found it a few days ago. I nearly cried, it was so gregarious like echoing velvet. I hoped someone heard the same sound I did.


Perhaps the couches had something to do with it six [times three] feet down in the library basement. They feel like cumulus compared to the granite I generally call my home's mattress and bed. Without fear, people are sleeping. In public. I've certainly done this before. But I feel like I'm in a big city as I see rows of them... Resting weary heads, studying something I don't study, conversing about lives I'll never live. If its late or if its day, I'll never know. All I'll know is a timeless dream should I drift into a weary nap, and feel the blurry time-lapsed feet of a society having the time of their lives. Before things levigate in chore, and well, the beauty of this moment's vignette falls to dull ears and blind eyes.


I just wanna get lost. That's what this basement was invented for. That's why these books are here. Its a little cold down here. I love it. I have a winter coat. If I am given substance to live, I could spend my life down here with this amount of knowledge given to me. Living... and sleeping... while knowing. Yet, not all the knowledge is present in this basement. Good. I could in false naivette give myself a brain scratch and be a little more humble because of it. In the basement of sleepers, naturally, you get a lot of time to plan. Nobody is going to bother you. They'll blur past as if a ghost.


If the vignette of sanctity goes dim on my current life, I'll know where to pay an extended visit. Just me, my silence, my sleep, and my ghosts who share the same existential, submissive strife as I do. Living without thought, but sound.