hear the chime of the cold constellations that guide you at 2:56 in the morning. taste the worries of tomorrow overflowing from your mug, spilling onto your lap of glitching faces, distorting your body into millions of pixels. touch the signals from the suicidal satellites dictating your amygdala in a requiem of the winter dawn.
you lay in a bed of clouds under blankets of anxious thoughts. blue volcanoes spew out violet insults telling you that you won't make it past the milky way, so you burn your fingertips trying to reach for the sun in hopes that it will prove those indigo offenses wrong. third-degree burns **** your senses and leave you feeling nothing. seeing nothing. being nothing. you look up to the sky, eyes dripping with desperation, only to find that the man in the moon left you for another life.
and suddenly, at 2:57 in the morning, you realize that orion doesn't seem so bright to you anymore.