funny how I always hear the sounds of animals snarling and seeming to tear each other apart outside my window, yet my window looks out over a normal, albeit poor, American neighborhood. I could close my eyes and pretend I was in some jungle, and it wouldn’t make a fucking difference.
I must’ve been mistaken. it’s not insomnia, it’s evasion. I’m avoiding my dreams. because my subconscious hates me. it’s all disjointed pain and faces I’d rather not see. places that either don’t exist, or are some surrealistic mockery of those I’ve known.
assured membranous destruction?
who’s to tell?
just shards. lunatic fringes of half-light vignettes. as if my eyes were in some involuntary perpetual squint, and my limbs were relegated to a similar fate, only muscular. some sort of punishment for transgressions of which I am ignorant in the commission. honest to the very last fault; I have no secrets left. I am a skinned tome. flayed down to the fucking bone.
“What you see is what you get.” is the cruelest, most inept cliché.
the faces I want to see are never present. the places I want to see remain absent from such a torturous reality. and the scenarios, well…
further fucking grist for the lunacy mill.
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