So vivid and so tactile and so tastely sensational summerly-relieving be it so that I can never trust myself. My thirst is ever-present lurking waiting for my guard to drop so drops can overcome me. I am my thirst to a great degree and we cannot be trusted. If I am anything, it’s appetite devising schemes for feeding.
I get depressed, paranoid, delusional even some days. I need to be free to spew the poisons building in me without causing no concern and am out of places to go and bemoan the seemingly meaningful senselessness, the scrolling nonsensical menace of my mind. It seems I’m ever verging ever near the edge. It isn’t true is it that I’m always almost insane as the million monologues of my brain concurrently raining would have me believe? I used to wish to be a song, a sound, but I am only noise. I am a clatter, hatter-mad and hare-marchly and there is no math in me nor science nor even an orderly myth. I am a systemless superstition, my own thoughts haunting my own ghost is what I am afraid of me so frightened away my shadow.