One A.M.

Awoke from thin and almost febrile dreams involving the smell of stale sweat and re-tweets of people who aren't even on Twitter.

Relieved myself by the dusky light of my toothbrush charger; went downstairs for water. The cold tiles left my feet feeling hot and prickly. In these wee hours I worry as one is wont to do; my leg has been mysteriously hurty lately and now this nerve confusion. In the darkness spectres loom, their names polysyllabic, faux-Latinate. Adult boogeymen, medical terms for poorly understood diseases one hears about on TV doctor dramas.

Got me wondering about cancer, I mean what is it really, what is the *deal* with all these little rogue cells? What are they doing and why is it so bad? And I have to wonder if the disease is actually evolution at work, our bodies attempting to adapt to this toxic world of ours, or even for trials aborning. These cells attempts to proof ourselves from that which is bad for the existing ones. Then cancer is our genetic lines' attempts to become supermen.

And I think well, it's probably not supposed to work that way; structural changes like that happen much earlier in the body's timeline: I.e. In the womb. But how does that make sense I wonder, when the great bulk of toxins will not be encountered until later? When new ones appear on a daily basis? Why wouldn't bodies be in a hurry to defend themselves in their own generation? Cells have no concept of time, why would they be patient?

Also if it is evolution, it's much too early to see real results; assuming it's a response to our industrial world, we've only HAD what, three or four generations, at most? And our genetic entities scramble to keep up with our burgeoning technology, and it kills us in the attempt. So far. But I rather suspect that for every batch of fails, there are some successes. And those are our future.

The failures we cut out because we value a single life more than the Great Genetic Experiment, more than the eventual racial survival. Not saying lives don't matter but on that broader scale maybe the insistence to preserve instead hinders; maybe our determination to solve what we in our short-term think are problems are the actual doom of our race, cutting across (as it does) the natural processes of adaptation, overcoming, survival of fittest.

No wonder I can't sleep, but at least I'm not worried about my leg anymore.

And now it's 2 a.m.

***

Fifteen minutes of tossing and turning, my thoughts tumbling into free verse. Like:

The hug he gave
His former lover
Was short but fierce.
Then he cupped her face
Twixt both hands
And kissed her forehead
Like a benediction
Then the nuclear fires consumed them.

And:

He wrote on the wall:
"We are the six billion shattered shards of God."
And wondered if he were going mad.
Not for what he wrote
But for writing it on the wall.

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