There it is, that recurring image of the world through the end of a straw with my own body in darkness. My feet become the concrete on which they stand and everything is a vibration I'm not a part of. There it is, that walk home where my feet wilt the weeds and the sun darkens the street. My toes dry the silt into dust and the waiting wind blows it around me and heat congeals it into the pores of my skin. So there I am, walking on weeds with dust skin baking in the sunlight staring at the world through a tiny orb of light occasionally dotted with a foreign, unforgiving face. The wasps in my frontal lobe are agitated again, buzzing and pushing against confines of my orbital sockets up into my forehead. Even shutting my eyes doesn't help this time and all that heaviness without origin still remains, subtly flattening brain matter like the insidious unfurling of a fan.