The logs on the shelves of my mind, do what they please,
They flip through themselves, moving backwards in time,
Shuffling, bleeding together, they mingle,
I see the breaking light, between the slotted captions at high speeds.
Replaying nights at play, and filthy plays at night, they wonder,
I remember her eyes, our smiles and what it would take to have her,
But the logs are but fragments of memory, from a scene viewed upside down.
Filtered through notion-ed senses, my minds eye will see what it can.
-what its offered-