Never stare out the window with only 3 minutes until work.
Ideas sink between priority and procrastination
and you're caught in the turbulence.
And the worst part is,
it's fulfilling.
More so than most meniality
moving through the heads
of every driver
in every car
on every street.

I busted my ******* hand and it wasn't because we fought -
Only because I couldn't handle the manifestation of my paranoia.
Now it hurts when I wipe my *** or lift my dog, meniality becoming a master task.
A reflection of me that isn't me passes by with a strong stewed vegetable smell. My dark green sweatshirt rigged into the main grid of the city; its fibres and style backstreets and pulsing.
Not like I don't recollect who I am anymore after never knowing - visions of a man's head being crushed under train wheels giant and rusted foaming and screeching with primal rage, confettied brain matter explodes like a firework across blackened earth; children will investigate the remains with sticks.