At four in the morning, the garbage filtering through your head becomes a whole lot clearer. 
Confusion leaves you, a sense of purpose is recovered.  Sometimes I wonder how I do it. 
Conscience - the voices of the dead inside your head. 
Then what are dreams if not just coagulated images with vague, fading sound effects?

the good

After so many months of classic ouroborous tail-dragging I finally found some time to overhaul the mess that my previous work has become. 
I’m not expecting to recover the trove that was entrusted in error to the fiends at the Reding cesspool anytime soon.  Some things just aren’t that easy. But surprisingly enough there’s always a few pictures coming up every now and then.  I’ve stopped expecting more.  An inconsolable part of me would rather the whole affair never happen. But the realization of which sets in, and concerning these matters only so much can be done.

the grief

My eyes tell me everything. 
I dream in color. 
I talk in my sleep. 
I belong to a future which ever will be caught betwixt happenstance and reality. 
I know things that have not yet achieved physical form in the present, but await the appointed hour of manifestation. 
Through the ether of an accidental awakening, I converse with polyglot oddities and estranged metaphysics on a daily basis. 
To this looking-glass chimera have I lost precious friends and colleagues.

the grain

There are no such things as 
vampires, 
werewolves,
faerie, or ghosts. 
There is no such thing as magic. 
What is commonly mistaken as 
Love is a breath held once every other moment by the hapless in the cold, hostile vacuum of an underwater abyss. 
Hope the cocoon of laughter, an alien flicker – showing its fickle smile only thrice in the game we have named Life. 
I know none of these things. Even with my eyes open all the time, in four and some twenty years have I seen nothing.

the gone

text for "Read For Us The Names From The Book Of The Dead" 
(c) copyright owned by Siddharta Somar, 4 August 1999
associated images UPLOAD coming soon