mor eof the same

Into the brink of bananas my tooth runs out of names because there was once a time in which there would have been something to do but instead the decay sets in and tomorrow never comes. Surprised? Fun fun fun this could be, and once again the rules are set, the groundwork laid by the idealism of the inner voice I rarely let free or to stretch like an imagination I had once. To there go I often when it's time to flounder and wonder why it is that I CAN'T handle the noise but I seem to be able to postpone the unhappiness, not to create a time that it will disappear altogether, and little things kick up signals that want me to pay attention, waiting for me to realise that it isn't what I expected or thought it was going to be, and instead of eventually reaching something difficult to find I find everyday just as difficult as the one before, only more or less idle when there would be fewer examples of elasticity. Underside is the same as upside down when I think hard enough to turn off the thoughts, and free myself from vanity, the one that chases me until I am unhappy again, unpleased, unimpressed with myself. The experience isn't really worth wondering about, no. I haven't tried to define the beginning or the safeness of the end, encapsulated like parenthesis, or bookends that want to meet but bend the space between themselves into ever more interesting, infinitely interwoven non-shapes, moving in on myself like the tips of my fingers crushing backwards into the hands, and the shoulders biting back and puncturing my head. An insect describes the arc I am attempting to imagine: sometimes the barbs point in to separate directions that leave me without a clear conception of where my focus is meant to be drawn, and inside I wonder how many times that shape had been drawn by nature by the time it emerged in that form. Who can't take the outside and shut it out the way it was supposed to shut, internalising the worst of the conundrums as whittled down from a massive calcified residue accumulated over the course of six or seven or eight thousand years, until without noticing I lean over and let my finger draw across it and before I realise what I am doing bring it to my tongue and what I expected to be merely salty is actually more caustic than I am prepared to handle physiologically, and the back of my throat begins to swell and cut off the flow of air to my lungs but i don't panic, never would, never would. I die in my dreams and decide that this is not natural but there is nothing I can do about it, or rather there is nothing that I can do to prevent it from happening again in the future so I use my ingenuity which is quite extensive and proven to adapt and find myself though a different and more wary and moody person nonetheless much much healthier for it. And instead of waiting for the hours to unravel I in this thickness of pined for sweeps of long grass eat my own body metaphorically, incestuous is a word that comes to mind but I don't like it anymore because its meaning has been lost due to over use. But still I describe an arc with the tips of my fingers as in my imagination I twirl as if there were no reason to pay attention, again shutting all things away from my awareness but still unable to live completely in the moment. I am tired of making decisions, decisions I make everyday it is what ages us, when we are children the decisions we make are rooted in instinct and an assumption that only good can happen as A result, but not now, no, we have the minds that attempt to out fox the other minds, there are only so many resources for the sharing. And instead of the weight that falls away from the face, instead of the heart that seems lighter than air so that the toes feel useless, there is a sloth that manifests itself gradually like the accumulation of debris around the eyes during sleep. Let them be sealed shut, my eyes, and I will sleep, because even if in dreams I am as unproductive, the waking world is nothing more than a series of moments seen through the lens of chemicals released according to association with stimulae. I don't want death because it would be cold but since sleep is where I spend most of my time it is where I feel most comfortable, if not most alive.