Their tits are tan, their giggles wan, their butts are there to beat

Suppose it is a song, or for that matter sleep : there is a place you know too well, where jagged notions heap. All movement, cast as flight or told as dream, yet 'round that center swirls ; don't matter if the moon is there, or darkness is complete.

Once fallen in -- be it just you, or just your twin (as you, for her, as well recall, you both there having been) -- the veil comes off. Off compass' folly and its twin, the folly to compass ; and there you stand, deep in the deep, again naught but a lass.

Alas this being's naught to be. As breezes billow yet again, and candles beckon thee, you find a way, your way again, away, away, a whee! Then lines curve with gravity, and as direction's a conceit so flee the flitting free. She, whose flutter sweet was yet to greet unbridled symphony turns, and returns, and then there's the...

There's the place, the place again. That drain-and-chain, discreet, eternal bane of dignity. Within its subtle, missing world all clothing is removed, and coats of paint fly freely off by willowy whorls oddly akin to liberty. The gauze is gone. 'Twas to be slight, most transparent, an ineffable inherent ; yet it's too much, and so it's off, off on its own, and urgently.

The paint won't stay attached, the nets won't stay in place, nothing remains but still, again, the same. How, freedom without the conceit ? How, liberty bereft its pretense ? What's it to be, of tyranny, when naught adheres to any ?

Meanwhile the place, the place again, exhaustion's brother without sleep. Nor is a night, nor will be dawn, nor can be said "eternally".