It's always times during which I fixate on detail that I begin to feel at peace in my corridor. I ruminate on things like loose hemming on a silk slip in order to feel detached from the prison of a numb disposition. How is it possible to return home to emptiness? What kind of home possesses void? 

While taking a nap next to complete strangers, I've begun twisting myself in to knots over what's forbidden from me; transatlantic endeavors hang over my numb shoulders like a colloquial explanation for fear. Semantics can provide as much comfort as a heartless prayer that has been birthed from a proud intention. 

Illusions seep in to my sleep and disrupt any environment in which peace could consciously exist. 'Tis far too late to unravel unsuspecting thread; I was too naive to catch it at the first knot; I've already cradled the acidity of apathy.