The pencil twirls the protat.

Spiralling loops skimming the scourer carpet floor.

Spinning my head on its axis.

Translocating my mental processes.

.

The carpet is a soft dirty blue storm.

And my eyes are a sapphire compass.

My hands are gravity's plaything.

And my heart is chocking on gasoline.

.

Spinning on the edge of control.

Viruses rise with the dust.

Swarms and streams of molten disuse.

A lit match furling away the corners of my vision in black and red.

.

I am sitting in a chair.

Suddenly caught up, cut out of the newspaper.

Plastered to the wall.

And blinking in sudden surprise.

.

People are walking past.

But I don't see them.

Ghostly figures playing word games.

Treading dust.