Faded/wasted,
There's yet enough
petrol left
to score.
Have sought more before
but it hath brought us places
we'll not remember/I'll not return.

I'm glad though, of what I've had; as
the vicissitudes of outrageous fortune
spin the great wheel of Boethius.

Cyborg;
n.
A cybernetic organism,
Cyb[ernetic]-org[anism].

Cybran;
n.
A cybernetic human,
Cyb[e]r[netic]-[hum]an.

Nation;
n.
A large body of people united by common descent, history,
Culture, or language, inhabiting a particular state.

Aeon;
n.
Originally meaning life, being, age and/or time,
Now relating to nous, noesis, noema, noumena, noumenon;
The noumenal world-in-itself, eternity and immanence.

The Way;
The philosophy that all should embrace peace.

The Illuminate;
Those who subscribe to The Way.

Threw a couple benzos in the mix yesterday
which was very unlike me, but it paid off;
The time was spent at a good friend's house.

Started with clonazolam (not to be confused
with clonazpam), this designer benzodiazepine
is as potent as xanax but with a longer duration
of between 6-10 hours. Abuse often leads to blackout
states and it has been dis-affectionately nicknamed 'clam'.
Being cautious of any compound active in the microgram range,
At first I ingested only a fifth of the illicitly pressed tablet.
It had light but noticeable effects which cooled my mind enough
that I consider dipping my toe in my preferred class of compound.

Perhaps an hour later I insuffulated 2mg
of 2,5-Dimethoxy-4-methylthioamphetamine,
Better known as DOT, the first of the Aleph series.
This produced a bare threshold of effects, including
minor thought acceleration (to counter the benzo)
and a hint of warmth throughout my body.
I left it at that. It is a good sign for future inquiries
into that rather mysterious series of compound.

Later still, I wrestled with whether or not to try another benzo
which was gifted to me when I mentioned I had never tried it.
Chlordiazepoxide, in this case going by the brand name Librium.
Prescribed to treat anxiety, insomnia and symptoms of withdrawal,
It has a half-life of between 5-30 hours. However,
An active metabolite of chlordiazepoxide (and also diazepam)
is nordiazepam - active for between 36-200 hours.
Can you imagine taking a drug which lasts eight days?
Hence my hesitation.
After some consideration (fifteen minutes of quick research
followed by fifty minutes of feeling the psychological weight
of the pill on my palm), I ingested a small black and blue capsule
marked "LIB 10mg". Of course, such a small amount
would not be in my system for so long.

Shortly thereafter two of us went down to the shop.
I floated through the isles, settling upon a carton of apple juice.
A slight but nonetheless uncommon feeling of happiness struck
me during our walk back. The fresh air was good, I could feel
the vague comfort of distinct experience. Perhaps this reads
as if it's nonsense, and I know it, but a sensation reached
out to me from my past, recognition of the pattern of being
I was currently pursuing, a mindset.
I suggested we split a small dose
of an exotic trip I'd been saving.

It's duration was appropriately
short, 3-6 hours. We ate 7.5mg
of 5-Methoxy-N,N-diallyltryptamine,
Commonly referred to as 5-MeO-DALT.
I believe I have had the honor of bestowing
upon it the colloquial name Foxtrot.

It probably did not effect us much,
I certainly could barely distinguish its
effects in the mix. Silly of me really, I don't
even like benzos, I had just been in a bad place
recently; this session reminded me I did not need
to escape anything, everything I once loved
is within reach. I'd give some credit for that insight
to the influence of psychedelics, despite the
quieting presence of axiolytics. Ultimately,
Insight is not a product of any drug. It stems
from experience, and no substance can dispute
the immutable metaphysics of mind,
Whatever its form may be.

My mind goes to weird and wonderful places when left unattended
and they make me reel it back in.
Them.
They don't want a person,
They want a tennis racket.

These days they hand you a certification
like it's the same thing as an education.

Wanting someone to understand me?
Selfish cliché.

I want to understand them,
Share empathy at a glance, for our perception to intertwine
and emotion to be enhanced;

My heart twinges
and my ears roar
with the afterthought
of my actions
in the world. I haven't

believed my story matters
for some time.
There were days when I'd listen
to Buckie High by BoC
so frequently.

I lived through
that tune for some time.

Longing to connect through that
sweet nectar, the comfort of Buckfast;
The heft of a bottle that felt right
in my hand, an extension

of my body
and its beliefs.

Chasing a statue, and it's getting away.

Waiting for the sun in some desert lands
as the weightless yacht sails through the sands.

My mind has gone rouge
and it's taken me hostage.

Wave to the slaves,
You've nothing better to do.
Give me your mouth,
I've something to show you:

Strobing images flow
to form a sea of subtly,
veracious emotion;
The black and white chequered tile floor,
In a baby's pupil, iris and more.

We are the greatest threats
to the fabric of society:
Terrorists, drug dealers, hackers and poets.
The drones of humanity tremble at the mention of our true profession.
Are they alive
or merely undead?
The difference struggles to comprehend.

Paper bullets fly through the air like locusts
as a torrent of words enfolds upon us.
"Did you think to **** me?
There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to ****.
There is only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof."
Love the feeling as it falls apart;
When the chaos breaks into a line and gives birth to art.

"We exist on the edge between the gloss and the reality: the mirror's edge."
And the glass has shattered
in a spiderweb of a fracture,
Ensnaring our very lives, so
we run. Immersed in flow.
Gliding over rooftops,
Knowing everything as intuitive.
Run, jump, climb.
No refrain,
Just a blur in time.
It only pauses for one moment:
The deadpoint;
Pendent suspense,
Caught without rise or fall
as the arch is rent.
Here we make sense of it all.
Faith is instinct,
Our grasp of it is immense.
Sometimes I can hear the broken reflections'
whispering echos on this fragmented mirror,
The edges of it running parallel to my ear.
She speaks to me,
My city.
Softly,
Like it's a dream.
But I've never felt so real.
What she told me,
Taught me how to live.
When you don't know what to do,
Run for it,
If not to get away then to feel.

Some moments I stop and think:
I'd give in to it, just to give myself purpose.
I ponder a ******'s destiny and it hurts wondrously,
Like a super-massive black-hole.
I want to dive in and lose control.
How long until I get bored, curious?

What are those depths like, how will it be
at rock-bottom, lying on my back
looking to the sky?

Tell me I'm wrong,
That my venturous nature will not
be the death of me.
At a point in time I questioned (with) my life,
You can't start living
until you've made a conscious decision not to die.
So, why choose life?

Hah, I dunno.
Were you really expecting grand answers
from a teenage ******-to-be?
"Who's the more foolish,
The fool
or the fool who follows him?"
Come find yourself, then
we'll see who's laughing.

Another night, another story,
Another set of moments, spent
in the prime time of our lives.
So why has it been meaningless
and less to me, plain to see in
my more recent writings (dare I
declare them poetries, dare I
pronounce modernity worthy).
It's so unclear to a fool waiting
to fall in love, a fool wondering

will it ever catch up, a fool who stopped
chasing the world, too concerned he was
with this fixation upon our conduits, the singularity of whichever connection we're living through. Each generation
lost to their own wondrous iteration of
this eldritch transhumanity.

Ersatz orange shadows
cast on urban streets at night.
Lost in disassociation,
There's a tunnel at the end of the light.

Her eyes gaze far into the horizon,
To meet the glare of a storm arising.
The quiet before it's thunder is chilling,
As the energy is distilling.
Shivers dance
on the nape of her neck.
I can hear the contemplation,
Her rumination.

Dark doors echo on a glass plane.
She dwells here,
Transfixed by fluorescent stains.
Black-light projectors
and vibrancy injectors
illuminate this neon dimension;
Trance angel held in suspension.

So many will never experience the sensations we have known,
I trust you will keep our venturous exploits ongoing.

Ego death is what I'm searching for,
Śūnyatā, zero-summing;
I am not.

I hope to reverse-engineer Nirvana.
and rather than nothing, become one.

Psychoactive substances and their properties
have been known to us since the dawn of civilization.

'Hallucination' comes from the Latin
"alucinari" meaning "to wander in the mind".
The origin of a word elucidates its true meaning.

Hallucinogen denotes psychoactive material
which is the cause of prominent changes in
perception, thought and mood.


Psychedelics are 5-HT2A partial agonists
[serotonergic hallucinogens] and are generally
either Phenethylamine, Tryptamine or Lysergamide,
e.g. Mescaline, Psilocybin and Lysergic Acid Diethylamide.
Dissociatives are NMDA antagonists, usually Arylcyclohexylamine
compounds which cause anesthesia, e.g. Ketamine and Phencyclidine.
Deliriants are anticholinergics that consistently cause acute confusion
and are often extremely poisonous e.g. Atropine and Scopolamine.

Lucky charms laced with LSD,
Ceriously!
What have I got to lose
besides time?
Mind? What mind? Mine?
Mind you,
That might be sublime;
Sanity is a burden (at the best of times).

"Never tell me the odds",
I'm not a gambling man.
"Down-count:
5, 4, 3, 1,
Off-blast!"

Asian foodstuffs,
Neon shades of rainbow
turn to cotton candy fluff.
I appear to be tripping hard
yet with a certain meditative quality to it all.

In an electronic garden
I can feel the data flowing;
The Internet, and with it
freedom in knowing.
The Black Library,
A wireless tree.
This is the dawn
of inhuman telepathy.

I love it, with all it's twisted irregularities:
The Room, that's art;
My immortal, that's far enough.
This is science used by insanity.

Come on baby, decide.
Feel these colours without their light.
Choose your path, leave your steps behind.
Throw The Doors open and breach the other side.
Be definitive in your choice,
In this design.

Our fascination
with these compounds:
The amps, the tryps;
The sensation, experience.
They amphlify emotion,
We tryp over the empirical.
Come on, what are you waiting for? (The sun!)
This galaxy was meant for us; born.

Get in touch with your inner-demon.

I found mine,
He's not a bad guy,
He showed me the ropes;
Tethered to the sky.

Atlas endures.

Incite debauchery
in the heavens above,
Invoke music,
Provoke love.

Atlantean allure.

Chained to the sky,
Bound to the air,
Break perception,
Open a tear.

Neo-classical heir.

Skybound to the future,
The past under the sea,
The present forlorn holds the key.

Their voices ask:
What do you want?
(Or, what should you.)
Loyalty, ***, social recognition?
No, something else eats at me.
The conditioning words of those voices
made me think it wrong, that I long to say to her:
Lets be alone together,
Understand each other.

What do I crave? Just her,
To be with her for a moment.
For me, that moment is eternity.
Is this truth really so alien?
A single sentence takes precedent:
Rainy daze in winter ecstasy.

Give it a rest there Sylvia,
I'm out on the borderlands while you're dead.

Break bad
if you dare.

Come down to where bandits rove
and marauders will **** you
or show you the ropes.

If eye go,
You go.

The times we have are good
for there's drink-a-plenty
and shed-parties galore.
Join us out here on the edge,
In wonderland as the world ends.
It could be hell, but it's our hell.

Are ya well yet? Beta-phenethylamine
and the mezheads; they know the score:
It's forty-to-four. Now to get lost
before they find us. I'll be in touch.

Sincerely,
-The Outcast Reprimand.

There's too much of this city in me,
Too many memories, and
too many faces
that don't remember me.
Someone wanted my body, and it
made me remember how much I wanted to die.
It made me ask who would ever put their heart
in the hands of this bearded villain.
The struggle to be human
killed my ambition.

A few lines start off the night,
We do blue powder in the fading half-light.

Bounce. I'm trembling
but it's alright. We drop those blue stars
and run for our lives

and get to the club
as I'm coming up.
Now I feel it, I'm feeling loved.
Just floating, feeling buzzed

Sublime/Oblivious; the blue pill
is worth it. Let go.
Empathy is divinity,
I'm feeling it eternally.

In this blizzard of chemical wonder
everything seems clearer
than were I sober,

Therein lies
a danger,
Sigma.
Humanity is a joint effort,
Mastery is a sole exploit

Originally from the Ancient Greek word 'empatheia', derived from "en" & "pathos" ["in" & "suffering or passion"]. Here we find the root of empathy's definition. Empathy is in emotion, feelings evoked from the animal in our psyche, the purported soul. It is sensation born of mirror neurons, not necessary under our control.

The Empathion is the empathetic dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind through which emotions are created and thence expressed.
Empathos is the corporeal manifestation of said dimension, expressed through the medium of a body.

Alexithymos [without-words-for-emotion] is an unaccepted dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind comprised of irreconcilable notions, it is proportionate to our own limitations rather than lacking in "actual compatibility". If a noumenon cannot be processed by The Empathion then it is relegated to Alexithymia wherein we cannot accept the inability to understand/emotionally analyse it at present, given the current pretext.

Alexithymia was constructed from a-lexis & thumos  [without-speech & soul, seat of emotion, feeling and thought]. It is a failure to integrate mirror-neurons into our own gestalt of consciousness, possibly because one does not yet possess the schema required for integration.

The Entheon is the actual dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind which is as according to reality (if/when aligned correctly).
The Apotheon is the elevated dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind which judges objects and thereby separates them from reality.

The Empatheon is the emotio-judgemental intersection of the psyche, The part of the mind where emotion can be comprehended, reflected and resonated (rather than merely sourced, determined and asserted). As a faculty The Empathion is intersected by both The Entheon and The Apotheon. Things-in-themselves may move through The Empatheon but their movements correspond to a generative dimension which cannot be known by the human psyché.

For one millisecond
I could have written anything.
All the synapses in my brain had aligned
and only inspiration was mine.
I could have rhymed tequila with a good time.
Sigh,
Now sail away, thoughts of mine,
Be lost forever to the depths of my actualized mind.

That summer glow is on the horizon
and in the humid night air
I'm here trying
to learn to speak, not to spit
verses
but to utter truths. Trying to
find my voice without losing myself.
So here's what went down between me and
myself as we looked upon the town.

I spoke into the glimmer of its lights
and told it my deepest fears
and most tenuous hopes
and I let my feelings
flow forth as my voice
made quiet my mind.
I uttered a few words as
if they might make a man
realise who I am, and I had a moment
or two before I asked myself what'd become of my time.
I saw myself sitting in a room, all day
for many months, years,
A lifetime,

And thought to myself what a waste
and wished my voice was clear, confident, lucid
and longed for the authenticity and courage I'd stifled
and wanted my mind to be together, smooth, whole
and begged for the strength to make it through the months
and remembered those aimless summers past, lethargy
and apathy with a sentiment that almost bordered on fondness
and wondered at that trick: how wrong it is
to be wistful when memory is so selective.
Better to look to the future
with sincere notions of adventure
and convictions on how to regain one's
soul;

I smoked ***** with friends last night
'cause I can't relax, need
a reason to session
after attenuating those drives.

Dark as it seems, this
functional human being
continue to search for signs
of life.  Is it the good fight, or

is it the lengthy flight?

I ripped out my eyes
so I could see sound,
Then stalked the earth
as it spun ever-'round

The sky turned red
with the blood of stars,
Chthonic heat
melted tar.
Underworld denizens
fled the scene,
For the storm had swept
Tartarus clean.
A hellion riot
was underway,
And angelic anarchy
had it's day.

No acumen to be found
in those novae eyes,
No subtlety,
No disguise.

To focus oneself on an aspect can be of use;
The singularity, the particularity. However,
To concentrate so singularly is also to be obtuse.

We shall not forget the how and the why,
Of which we must philosophize;
Else we lose the power of the mind
Unravel consciousness, modify perception,
We dare warp the existential to assure our protection.

We shall endeavour to remember such an Application Of The Psyche.

Sometimes I feel so deeply
it burns me like kerosene.

The addiction is in superposition
and I'm ready to go.

Do you feel me?

Neon euphoria;
We bring rapture unto the night,
As we venture forth
under orange streetlight.

Join us as we quest
to compose a good time,
And glide, rapt in lamplight,
On a high that's divine.

Express yourself,
Drop a line,
The movies taught us
adventure was never a crime.

No longer do we face rejection,
Now we are the stuff of legend.
When night falls
this city is mine.

It's what we know,
What was left for us
to find; it's not a crime
to have a good time.

I felt an overwhelming need to get lost
just as school was about to start.
Something was wrong,
The sways had begun to occur for too long
and I felt existence laid bare.

My eyes are open, the colors are intact.
Of those who gaze into the abyss,
Few have seen it stare back.

I continued to look
even when cooler heads' turned
and more courageous hearts' shut their valves.

You see, I would go about obtaining knowledge
in all the wrongs ways.
I am altered.

I'd ask questions
that'd bring me back.
Can I perceive what I am?
Who is that?
Is patience the right course of action?
Will it come back?
Am I insane, what of insanity?
Does it slowly grip me like an ego grows vanity?
Return to the plain from where you absconded?
What might you find has settled in your mindset?
What see you that'd scares you so?
This psychobabble taken root in my soul.
What eats at you,
What do you know?
Are you so scared of what you've grown?

Am I so scared.
What do I know?
What've I become?

There is work to be done.
Before you know it
you'll be back again.

Qualia, if they exist, describe experience.

Perceptions are frames of consciousness
that define experience: would they be given a number
representing frames per second [FPS].

There must be something to perceive
for there to be experience, and the perceiver:
A machine/dreamer through which energy flows
for perception to occur; neural oscillation cycles
equating to perceptual frames of consciousness
where a frequency would equal a certain FPS.

A moment in a dream, a quale.
The realm of the Oneiroi beckons:

During REM sleep there is no experiential context,
Suppose a dream's content is be sourced from memory:
Thence memory morphs into dreaming. Perhaps the actions
of acetylcholine during sleep disrupt temporality, meanwhile
serotonin and norepinephrine play another role in dream activity;
Were dopamine ever-so minutely implicit in lucidity?

If a dream could be quantized could we identify a quale?
The goal, to prove that qualia exist. Perhaps this 'heavy realm'
could then be described using this qualitative formula, we strive
to produce a quantum of experience.

As analogue is to digital, so digital should be to quanta.
Ah, but who would ever listen
to my nonsense.

I'm just a dreamer
and such a chancer. (Aren't we all?)

"I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tanhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain. Time to die."
*-Roy Batty

The world's less fair than they let on
because everybody can't have this much fun.
Learn how to make the subtlest of calls, then, my friend
you can have it all.

Ever wonder why villains are such an opulent lot?
It's because **** always floats to the top.

The birth-throes of adulthood is alteration unto its/our own state, the formation and growth of neural connections straining our minds, the brain adapting to phenomena in space and time, deeming it experience. It is this process I reckon to be consciousness.

It was only after adolescence I could begin to understand qualia. During this period my brain was busy going through the teenage 'motions of neurochemical upheaval. My mind was far too young to understand what it intuitively grasped. Something was memorable, meaningless, its qualities stuck in mind. This was how I began to understand qualia, meaningless memories which I treasured beyond measure without knowing why, the essence of nostalgia.

During this time emotion was a mysterious thing I could only feel as coming from my own experiencing ego, not as something occurring between two animals which one alone can never understand (though the narcissist might dispute that). Take love, an attachment, certainly an altered-state, a modifier of behavior, the serotonergic system implicit in its proper function (and if we're lucky, some oxytocin).

We'll hold this for further discussion.
Now for something mildly intresting.

My introduction and use of psychoactives was typical if quite comprehensive (and of course it felt 'special', I still feel this). Fascinated by what substances could do to elicit qualia (though no doubt unable to elucidate this) I lost myself thoroughly, great attracted to the culture around them. This accompanying ethos I could not hope to comprehend took me in its stride. At first I had no reservations as to indulgence, which taught me a few hard lessons. Later I would catch a rare glimpse of this ethos in its motions, gleaming it on occasion.

These times gave rise to specific feeling, recreation followed by reading into the neuroscience brought about a knowledge of some sort. The neurochemicals represented what my experiences were founded upon but not what they were.
I knew them in theory and from practice upon my consciousness,
This knowledge stayed with me long after my 'research' had finished. I would recognise familiar mental sensations in occasional sober interactions, minor alterations in mind brought on by certain foodstuffs (or lack thereof).

What does this answer in relation to qualia?
It tells us that moments are qualitatively conditioned by the given physical constraints.
What power mind and/or brain have over each other remains to be seen, as does the will's constituents and how it comes into being. Does it boil down to binary, exponential subject-object distinctions giving rise to abstract properties? Answers to the question of meta-consciousness continue to elude us.

We hypothesize that the given conditioning can evoke
a certain magnitude of qualia. We assert that qualia exist
to the extent that belief does (and is) but that they are ascribed
to experience by presentation rather than representation.
Belief and desire are propositional whereas qualia are proponents thereof which feedback into behavior, belief and desire.

Tentatively, we suggest that qualia might be measured in term analogous to wave patterns and spectral density while individual quale might be respective to individual neuronal constructs within the neuroplastic structure of the brain.

In this way a given pathway corresponds to a certain experience/memory.

You told me you see angels sometimes
and hear them talk. I hope you're ok.

I see the fallen one. In reflections,
Watching me, surfing on glass,
Menacing, gliding across
or astride my path,
hiding in corners (he's got my back).
A soft voice with life's answers at my beckoning ear,
"Through victory my chains are broken".
I figured I would not be missed.
So personal it became
the person split.

I felt this wonderfully sick thrill in my veins
as I became a devilish man; sardonic eyes
brimming with mirth, the eyes of the dammed
that I forged, pupils dilated; content with the way
the wind blows, in pursuit of happiness at every turn;
And they call this evil.

The phenomenological reduction [epoché]
is a suspension of judgments about the existence or non-existence of the external world to focus on phenomena themselves.

The eidetic reduction
is an analysis of essence or ideals,
It is performed by cycling through different elements of a mental reproduction for a given phenomenon to define its key characteristics.

The transcendental reduction
is a general examination and dissection of experience derived from the mind which is supplied by the given sensate intuitions, acknowledging its taken for grantedness.
This, the reduction proper, is the realization of and acceptance
that the world as we know it is taken for granted; everything is a signifier.

The world is so big
sometimes things get hard to define.
Do you ever think to yourself:
"I just don't know what I'm supposed to be"?

All I know is one day I'll shatter the sky
and Atlas will tremble
as that Elysian eye darkens
to cast it's gaze upon all the stars.

Take the blue pill, "sleep now in the fire".
Take the red pill, "wake up and smell the ashes".

I chose to swallow both;
Overdose.

I  breached the floodgates of thought and
was submerged in what gushed forth,
I just don't think about it anymore;
Tried so hard it seemed to work,
Yet hold steadfast discourse.

I accepted existence (and the absurd),
Now I ignore it, just because:
Does the pursuit of happiness come at the cost of knowledge?
Does blissful ignorance bring one closer to solace?

If you had to choose,
which would you pick?

I doubled dropped.

I smell like sweat, drugs and ***.

Autumn blew through,

So I'll throw some memories out,

Thoughts on how little we belong
and on what true adolescence was.
In my teenage years I learned much
and began to yearn
for experience
and the sensations I covet.
Let the seasons breed those destined memories!
What say you on  predetermined temporality?

Lads, no matter what happens
smile,
'cause we saw it all;

It was June in Fall.

A cradle of scythes lay in a chariot.

You reap what you sow, I grow plans.
Plant them in my mind, let them expand.
Watered with thought,
Spruced with consequence,
Implanted quietly, with utter nonchalance.
Meanwhile, in society
I digress entirely.

Later when fruition has come to bear,
A portion of the harvest will have been ensnared.
The scythe has a name: Benefit Of The Doubt.
Don't fear the reaper,
Fear without.

"Do you want to see the most beautiful thing I've ever filmed? It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing, and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was just, dancing with me, like a little kid beggin' me to play with it - for fifteen minutes. And that's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know that there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember - I need to remember. Sometimes, there's so much beauty in the world - I feel like I can't take it, like my heart is just going to cave in.
-Ricky Fitts

She took his hand then and kissed him.

An old friend learned the path to immortality,
I think I'll follow him there.
It feels like there's nothing for me
in this mortal world. Maybe there's one,
If she's brave enough. "If somebody's got soul
you gotta make the move,
Make a move."

Movement/Moment.

I said I was going home
but unpredictable got in my way.
I wandered into the park, curious, for I saw
a crowd milling about, and curiosity did demand
my time. By pure chance, randomness, I acquired
a bounty of yokes in the likeness of blue ghosts.
Such is the way of Millennium on a Friday.
As quickly I found my mates to show them
the treasure.
We decided
to get dosed.
Bitte.

Suspense coming up, then, forty-five minutes in
excitement hit
as our brains leak serotonin. On love buzz again,
Young demon.
Some gang tried to mug mine, I laughed at them
as we walked by.
Howdy-** *****?
Nobody could touch
us, I was on fire. Then
drum 'n bass brought everyone higher.

I have ventured there
and for a while I thought
I would not return
from the realms of the mind
that go beyond this earth.

No words can summarize
the sensation/experience
of existence in a psychedelic state.
The breadth of those
hyper-associations.

Psi.
Time dilation via thought acceleration.