I'm here to sit and burn the flowers to inhale their haze and pretend that my head never falls off with every word I try to speak, loud and verbal. Loud and verbal. In the crowds, in the crying ******. The astral plane fades, the food is digested, and the music turns static. Coping involves denying all and reminding thyself it'll all be over soon. Maybe just for me, maybe, if we're lucky, for them. Maybe just for me.