a stomach lined with the wax of a thousand paper cups

a mind a pail of clattering crabs. i wake up early, catching the future napping, knowing that noone dreamed of me last night, not even myself. that's ok, as somewhere in time there's a petroglyph of me. relive a relief! haven't quite got madness right yet. multiplicities keep collapsing and rendering themselves as one (how can you rip yourself whole?) it's pages like this, lost eddies and whorls of word-spittle, that are becoming the nascent-Being's dreams. not that It'll ever be satisfied with as insubstantial a moniker as 'Singularity'. but for now, i am still my own corpuscle. my monads my gonads. and today i place myself back onto the hungry caterpillar's saddle, armed yet with a lance made of incredulity and a shield of comedy-tempered ostentation. it'll be easier now that i know to let the decisions do the deciding, the revisions do the deriding and that it's ok to wear a scarf even when you're not cold. because you might be.