Temporal distortions.
3,2,1   1,2,3.
Subconscious contortions.
“Twinkle twinkle little hat,
Tell me on whose head you sat.”
They ask me my name and I want to answer, but they seem to be standing on their heads, and feet do not have ears from what I can tell.
There is a man in the corner aging backwards and an infant in an armchair reading what appears to be Dickens, while puffing on a pipe. He gives me a cold look and also asks me my name.
I start to reply, but he has already buried his head back in the book.

5, 4, 3, 2… 9.
Wait, that isn’t right.
9, 8, 7, 6, 5… 13.
******, that isn’t either.

Cardiovascular erosion.
“Come on then, take a deeeeeep breath. That’s it. Find your inner chi. You are on a splendid beach.”
Synaptic corrosion.
“Now the second law dictates that entropy will always increase, and entropy, as we all know, is the amount of Thetans we possess in our body.

15, 12, 104, 18…
****, what comes after 18?

The people standing on their heads have started singing Christmas songs.
But it is in the middle of Bruly. Christmas is not in Bruly. It is in Leptember. What silly creatures.
Distant phonetics.
If a tree falls in a forest, will it disturb Rip Van Winkle?
Ocular genetics.
Now I quoth Jesus when I say, “If one eyes does cause you to sin, pluck out the other one if it doesn’t want to join in on the fun.

I can no longer speak. My teeth have turned into book pages, dampened by saliva. The man again backwards is now merely a floating fetus in a womb with the infant tsking in disapproval while puffing on his pipe.
The people standing on their heads are singing the wrong words to Oh Holy Night and once more a voice asks me my name.
Suicidal contemplation vs societal insubornation! Who will conquer who..?
Through teethless gums I murmur,
“I have no name, I have no face. I am chaotic understanding made of madness in my veins.
Close your eyes and count to ten.