I can't write. I can't write. I can't think, and string words together into whatever is fantastic and heavy behind my eyes.

Planetary collisions and gentle probings of the tongue. There is a mixture of the grandiose and the down trod, here. I feel it.

I feel it back there, pushing on my brain and not finding a way out. It's scratching around in my skull, like a panicked mouse.

I should sleep, and let the pressure flow out of the chill in my toes. I will dream of these things I cannot touch and remember nothing of them.

I will awake and remember nothing of the pain I am experiencing in order to express myself. In order to feel myself grow, and shrink.

I am making too much sense. With nickles sitting at my elbows, and mushrooms growing under my bed, and spiders protecting me while I breathe, rhythmically,

I am making too much sense.


an: What's wrong with me?