There is no place for this particular moment in your arsenal of moments so far

I think we all read at night. We score out across plains of imagination to find ourselves an honest voice in the night. Our heads tips. Our chins to our chest, we snore quietly. Where do you go in this world to dissimilate when time just seems to keep increasing, piling on in increments, rolling over itself and then back over us till we feel like a pile of something inhuman.