Pores secrete an unfamiliar liquid into my open lap.
Wherever I was before fades, hazes before my very eyes.
Structures are incoherent while the form I once knew dissipates through my body.
The air has become a tangible sponge that molds to my hands.
I am still on the ground, simultaneously falling repeatedly over my feet.
Singularity of oneself is fickle, I smell it’s departure by the scent of the death cap.
While traversing to a new time and space there is a powerful dysphoria.
The chemicals shifting my brian into a new realm fuel my anxiety.
Concepts of my kind, mess with my mind, as my happiness declines.
The working machine isn’t supposed to stop that which perpetuates madness.
I reach out to feel what I no longer can, as the new reality shapes my fragile state.
When one's grip begins to slip, a slow boil of the senses reaches euphoria.
To say life is pain would give too much credence to existence.
Marching this way and that scathed the soles on the boots of the proletariat.
Bathing the toxic grime off everyday just to feel clean in an unwashed society.
My distractions birthed more serotonin than the tireless work of the propaganda.
I watch myself from beyond the veil as I demolish my remaining epistemology.
Within one person lies the ability to reconstruct my tolerance for persistence.
Our bodies are just a meta hierarchy of trillions of cells.
Who am I to deny their own revolution?
I don’t deserve structure.
It feels cold here.