the walls of the prison of the mind are charged with hope, shocking me into the quivering anxiety of an anticipation of a so-and-so-called better future. i will rather keep still in the center of the one which is none, i am doing it now, i have never done otherwise, although it might seem that you see me jerking about, brandishing my constantly falling apart rag rug self against your unknown blindness: you think to see what is not you. once scratched open, the surface reveals but a theoretical pain. in believed time, the infuriating itch in my skin shall be the witness to the revolt of my body against its imaginary separation from the table i am sitting at, angry at the eternal emptiness flooding back mercilessly into every unguarded moment not stuffed with frantic activity. i have always awoken before my head hit the ground.
Posted on: Sun, 13 Jul 2014 17:33:38 +0000
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