My life is occasionally a continuum of anxiety of and or relating to the possibility of my going insane. My greatest fear is schizophrenia, thanks mostly to Aldous Huxley's Doors of Perception. At my worst, I am standing in a Wal-Mart under the surrealistically bright lights of dead consumption waiting for my head to become an unfamiliar place filled with unfamiliar voices. It has never happened. The closest I ever came was on the night of February 4th, 2013 (which, in this case, just so happens to be last night), when in a state of silly pointless inconsequential anxieties I thought I heard the faint hum of an unfamiliar voice chanting, 'Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.' It went away, but the moment I started hearing it I freaked out a little inside as I was lying in bed having just finished reading. I attributed it to the possibility of over-reading, over-conceptualization, not enough time in the real world. I blamed reading and writing and watching for the feeling that I'm never quite in the real world, because my head reads and writes and watches and asks itself; “are you real? Can you truly say with any certainty that you exist? How much sense does depth perception make, and now go to sleep and dream in your head because one day dreaming will be considered a symptom of mental disease. Enjoy it before it terrifies your strange fettered wits.” Sometimes I listen to music in my head and wonder if that's insane. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and contemplate innocence. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and sing along. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and realize all music comes from inside so I calm and I calm and I calm.

I will look into your eyes
till the dubious questioning glances
turn to the surrealistically sensuous
Sight of surrender!

I will wait for you
in the sun and the snow
and the rain and the thunder!

He steps out of a cab
as a jet
surrealistically
glides
slow motion-like
into the world trade center

he doesn't see it happen
he hears it happen:
          the explosive sound reverberating
          through the silvery upward space

          and then the awful silence descending
          hanging over the street
          an ominous existential moment
          in which time and memory are stilled

he begins to run...

later he hears
a second plane slam into the tower

he's surrounded by people running, shrieking,
a galloping mass of figures racing
against a strange backdrop, a tsunami of
rolling undulating smoke
pouring from the towers

there were those who knew
he had an appointment
this very morning in the towers
a morning that is now an apocalypse
a time when a massive number of people
would be confronted with a fiery demise
annihilated
dna destroyed
identity obliterated
flesh reduced to ash

this was his moment of transformation...
money could fix his destiny
a perfect time when identity could be
so easily purchased, reinvented, altered...

he would start over:
a new name, a new face, a new life -
he would run, flee, escape without regret,
without a trace,
racing ruthlessly, breathlessly
on a path
to his own resurrection...