Sleepwalking

I shall have to ask a question before we end, begin, once again. Images smolder. Solids. A tumble of rings held lofty by a leather string. Patchwork carpet. Dead cockroach. The smell of adobo, of Ivory. Of Pond's, of ginisang kangkong. The constant dawn / twilight. Is this insomnia, or am I just waiting, still? I am going to get tired of waiting, I tell you, of a stillness that is different from the stillness of dew. Am I trying to write a transcendental poem, or am I already failing? Let's leave these things to Dalao, shall we?

PS
Thanks, ZoeDee.