not well healed microfractures
staring at the ceiling
temples flying time
mad like moths banging on glossy transparent walls
once again into the pit
hands crapped
headedness
a flood of platitudes
forced to swallow the mathematicity of common's minds
subject to reviews of those who do not understand
the disgust you feel for everything and everyone
the repulsion of touch
what we persist to call humanity
animals do not look at each other for dignity
commonly called the submission
is instead a deadly and fierce independence
and a spirit of no adaptation there is no progress there is no evolution
only a lucid detachment from the world
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