They'd say it's a phase. If they even saw. I see through the clouds, I'm near home. I've been here, intracellularly here. Not sick or gone. Not gone, man. I'm on a plane onto a new plane. I turn my head and my seatmate is me.
The desk is filled with chronic papers always wanting to solve their own illness The only depression I feel is the cleft where my male part goes, I am propulsion The event horizon is breakfast: two eggs better than tits/a keyboard/a dream
I'm a burning ball of fire and feel mandated to 'get things done', therefore I scream .
Over the chest-high cinderblock border wall the laundry line sags with tops and towels. In this city yard relic with rural, decrepit boughs waist-heavy with tits of green limes unbred women unrhythmically ill-choose words, convey nothing but craving and belch. This is the watcher view. In my hauteur, I am unwitnessed and splendid. .