I Fellowed Sleep

I will write a real post tomorrow.

Having an internship and working will make sleeping almost in possible...but it's worth it. I have so much to write though. About my cool internship at a production company that has made award winning documentraties.

I want to write about Lenny Kravitz and how he dresses like someone out of a GQ magazine. I want to write about my responsibilities as an intern which include administrative tasks (answering phones) and production tasks (transcribing video).

I want to write about the weird email (via facebook) I got from a guy I knew in middle school who has grown into a gorgeous lawyer in training. But I will have to do that all tomorrow because i have a day off then and I don't plan on doing anything but sitting at home and writing. It sounds like a good plan for the day.

Oh and lately I have become obsessed with Dylan Thomas. He's pretty much the shit these days:

I fellowed sleep who kissed me in the brain,
Let fall the tear of time; the sleeper's eye,
Shifting to light, turned on me like a moon.
So, planning-heeled, I flew along my man
And dropped on dreaming and the upward sky.

I fled the earth and, naked, climbed the weather,
Reaching a second ground far from the stars;
And there we wept I and a ghostly other,
My mothers-eyed, upon the tops of trees;
I fled that ground as lightly as a feather.

'My fathers' globe knocks on its nave and sings.
''This that we tread was, too, your father's land.'
'But this we tread bears the angelic gangs
Sweet are their fathered faces in their wings.
''These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.

'Faded my elbow ghost, the mothers-eyed,
As, blowing on the angels, I was lost
On that cloud coast to each grave-grabbing shade;
I blew the dreaming fellows to their bed
Where still they sleep unknowing of their ghost.

Then all the matter of the living air
Raised up a voice, and, climbing on the words,
I spelt my vision with a hand and hair,
How light the sleeping on this soily star,
How deep the waking in the worlded clouds.

There grows the hours' ladder to the sun,
Each rung a love or losing to the last,
The inches monkeyed by the blood of man.
And old, mad man still climbing in his ghost,
My fathers' ghost is climbing in the rain.