As I write, my fingers think.
My mind listens.
My ears talk.
My mouth smells.
My skin tastes.
My eyes feel.
My heart sees.
The page I'm filling with words embraces my soul.
The only thing that never derails its proper function inside this case of imperfections, my body.
Bonded to my delusional soul, the only ink that writes for me.
And as I write the words dance to the melody of my insanity.
Creating psychotic musical notes sang only by those who suffer from my same neurosis.

And as I write, we all frolic in this enchanted world of dementia.
And this I write, tomorrow will no longer exist.
In the world others call "reality".

And as I write... my maniac self laughs at normality.