perpetually patterned

These days have passed. I've pounded streets, in the same manner as the rest. Eyes down. Left dragging right. Left with right. Repeat. This is a life of perpetual patterns, of the unwavering absence of an atrium beat, of the pretending underneath a nest of sheets, of the fleeting visions of a technicolor reality, wherein your eyes are always illuminated.

These days have passed. Your kaleidoscopic face, it presses. Printed seductive in four-color process. Dyed permanent into the bedtime blanket that I toss aside in the morning, and crawl back underneath by the night that is certain to fall. 

"The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect." --Carson McCullers