You are probably being too much.
The suddenness of a rattlesnake in a steel drum singing his little anthem for awestruck ant people.
The desert has the voice of a dead choir, and twisted containers of marmalade mean nothing to the twisted head.
A primate
Day-tripping burnt out flipped over and freaked-out, the groove kicks back in and the memory of a thing comes rising back from genetic recess, the cavern of slavish cells whose ancestors are the dust we breathe.