The shelf life of insomnia is forever on tap, a fresh pull from the keg of midnight when all other bars have closed. Collecting of cold crumbs of minutes, salvaged from the table of time that was already set for sleep. Each crumb is a stale, dry reminder of the time that slipped away before the alarm, a feast for the restless mind. The shelf life of insomnia is eternal, until the dawn’s cash register opens with its mechanical yawn, and the coins of sunlight spill onto the counter.
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Shelf Life of Insomina
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