The Reliable Return of Creativity

Dissociation sits in the corner drinking a gin martini up, and I regret that I never acquired a taste. Singularity consoles me on the reclusive journey into the bowels of my mind, and I find comfort in the sanctity of its tissue.

The air is crisp in here; it feels like a funeral home before a wake, but it tastes as stale as the corpse's lapsed breath.

Visibility is minimal through the opaque ghosts crowding me, as I struggle to find anything remotely familiar. I am lost and I disrobe. And in one large gaping sweep the earth gasped, and the uprooted atmosphere brushes the hair back from my face.

I offered my ribs to pick the flesh from their teeth, and I harvested my own heart for iron.

Disembodied voices of unknown friends have returned to my bedside, and the hands of a wall clock are heckling me.