The air is thick, my thoughts like putty.
Can't sort through the tangle of displaced dreams.
These lingering flies of memories long past continue to patronize me.
My mind is the fuzz of the television screen, the crowded room, the vibrating drums.
Every ounce of my energy is wasted on the pestilence that rakes my eyes.
Each moment I come to the realization that time is an illusion, I feel the piercing gaze of Medusa in my heart.
It skips the torture of ripping at my flesh and instead proceeds to lick the numbness right through the fibers of my skin.
There's this funny little feline that uses me as her ball of yarn that, quite honestly, I've grown tired of.
I don't know what it is to be confident in what I believe in at this point,
because it is a foreign term, one determined to strangle me to the point of wintry solitude.