Slightly drunk. Tipped at a certain angle, not quite gone. The room is transformed. There is a strange crackling sound warbling down the hall. Is it real? My phone.
What could have set me into such a strange, surreal, distorted state of mind? Certainly not the alcohol. Alcohol doesn't do these things. Not as far as I know. Tip that cart and it will certainly roll.
Telepathic pattern recognition. I can't explain it any other way, it is too far above. Something is going through. Possessive abstraction. Extensions, seeping power, and I happen to be the next flash within the pop of a strobe. Who's face is this in the candle-lit mirror? This ever-present death has to be a delusion. If not, what then?
Coming down now. Soon I will have to explain myself. Maybe look back upon this written madness in confusion and embarrassment. Maybe not. There is a soft, ringing sorrow in it all. Or maybe just utter detachment, interchangeable, one mistaken for the other. Where does it end? What does it lead to?
Rants like fluid, like expulsions, generated from somewhere we could never reach, but there, nevertheless.
