Sunday 10 June 2018

Clogging Frankenstein

Waning wash of melatonin, like a dose of fifty-thousandths of a measure of something else that'd have you taking back shit you hadn't stolen if you weren't bathing paralyzed in a sweaty bed of uncertainty,  like the anesthesia'd worn off where one can feel a residual soreness unsure if it'd been administered to hide; maybe it's a pain brought on by nature's painkiller. Pain killer. Pain driller. Liminal paranoia perhaps, but captivating either way. Both ways. Ineffably this symbology has come to the threshold of the word just to tease the senses abreast of the sensation.

So much can be done to a nervous system. So much can go wrong among one of bazillion blips in certain allegiance headed right. You don't think under your exhaustion; don't think you're exhausted because of the ceaseless struggle underground to maintain attendance along your current wavelength. No, think that. Then think something else. Then think things through.