On Sleeping

I am a sleepy individual, I cannot defend it. Just one under Hypnos' light touch. And soon in possession of a proper shrine to my father spirit. Pops, twin to Death, daughter of Night, in his lazed pillowed bliss, gatekeep'd with poppy flowers.

Defend it? Would should I dream to? It is beyond a defence... bearing testament to everything I wish extolled, venerated and pedestaled.

For why should I defend it? Sleep is my inane character... It would be the sinful vulgarity, the rejection of whatsoever predisposition granted upon my person by whomsoever, and the greatest of impiety.

Yet Hynpos is so feared, the intangibles of his brother, his druggy son, and his opium den lair, that it extends to persecutions, to his discipled children martyred in this world. The unveiled, mishidden, never hidden, hatred bred into the industrious Athenians, and their testosterone mutant brothers, the Apollons.

I didn't spill disgust on the worker bees of the Protestant Ethic. I think it, such the immoral life they lead. Stealing themselves in a slavery, poisoning the life economic against us all. I curse their hurtful world.

Bring me a drink from the Lethe, river of forgetfulness. And send me dear into the long dreams of my beautiful siblings. Sweep me away darling Phobetor, darling Phantasos, darling Morpheus, and never return me here.

A daybed! My worldly kingdom, everything I possess, for one of these... (here, here, here, here)

From Ovid, on the House of Sleep:

Near the Cymmerians, in his dark abode,
Deep in a cavern, dwells the drowzy God;
Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun,
Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon;
But lazy vapours round the region fly,
Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky:
No crowing cock does there his wings display,
Nor with his horny bill provoke the day;
Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese,
Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace;
Nor beast of Nature, nor the tame are nigh,
Nor trees with tempests rock'd, nor human cry;
But safe repose without an air of breath
Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death.

An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow
Arising upwards from the rock below,
The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps,
And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps.
Around its entry nodding poppies grow,
And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow;
Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains,
And passing, sheds it on the silent plains:
No door there was th' unguarded house to keep,
On creaking hinges turn'd, to break his sleep.

But in the gloomy court was rais'd a bed,
Stuff'd with black plumes, and on an ebon-sted:
Black was the cov'ring too, where lay the God,
And slept supine, his limbs display'd abroad:
About his head fantastick visions fly,
Which various images of things supply,
And mock their forms; the leaves on trees not more,
Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore.