A synthetic thunderstorm envelops me and I forget where my life is. I forget about you and your fluent tongue of disinterest, puppetry, and misinformation. I forget the speakers and soundscapes; wires and ties and strings attached, the way I struggle to sleep alone, but cannot share my life with anyone.
I forget the next payday, the next lay; the need to borrow words and feelings just to make sense of my own. Distraction and hunger for nicotine become near-echoes of a past life- an umbilical bond to old decades of habit and mistrust for the sober mind. I forget the ash and ends I have left behind.
The ocean is close but occupies no space, only the airwaves with a rhythmic breath to still my own, reducing my identity to fractals of self-interest and oneness. I forget who I am amongst the writing desk, The Book Of Longing, the cooling tea; the stagnant water. I forget flesh desire, violent ***, and apologetic *******.
I forget, for once, the need to live, amongst all of this living.