whose hand cradles us, molds us, transforms us, into the strange creatures we become in the morning?
who cuts the creases, punches the swollen, sucks the dry of us?
who mashes the hair, works it's fingers, pulls at it like smoke, spinning and turning, cutting it like jagged teeth, or glueing it like spider's silk?
whose breath blows a stench into our mouths?
who ties our limbs, pulls on them awkwardly like a marionette puppet?
who covers our eyelids to sew them shut, our active eyes that remain shut, eyes that are burning underneath and have lazy elephants sitting on the tops of them?
who paints on our mind, steals it, sucks it down, spits it out, pushes it, laughs at it, comforts it, speaks to it, haunts it, opens it, loves it?
it is sleep, the cousin to death.
(also read the 'description' text found under the 'info' link to learn more about this project)