I let my fingers rest in the sand. I let my feet rise with the dust. My head's swimming with the stars and my eyes are lacking substance as my ears resonate resounding nothingness. Each strand of hair becomes iron and I sink into the earth like it's quicksand. The earth, it beats, beats, beats and I get dazed in its rythmic persuasion. I'm stuck to the ground like I've never had feet at all. I feel the seismic shudders like it's billions of feet moving at once, billions of people sleeping, eating, praying, preying, and I'm part of it like a conspiracy that I'm heading but have no idea is happening. I save old cologne bottles so that I could watch the scented oil drip and effervesce in the summer heat. I walk through the alleyways of New York and observe the pebbles that furiously spell out nothing important and I'm wondering how they got there. My god, my God, I'm swimming in dust and smoke, and I think in sepia overtones. The stellar supergalactic determinist scheme's got me tangled in my own conceit like a thousand cables weaving in and out, in and out, for the thousand appliances that I don't really need. These applications that have me all twisted up, but how they cradle me into a Dionysian slumber that's so eternal that words lick at an attempted meaning and get the dry taste of air. This burnt tongue manifesto that I use as toilet paper, I wrote all my life philosophies on tissue paper and watch as they split into ever slenderer parts until they shed thin enough that wind shears it all to incoherence. I go through each day and watch people smile through their teeth, laugh through their noses, and when no one's looking we're just sleeping with our eyes open. The surly mass of inconvenience, the earth ousts us with belligerent tectonics. I take a hot shower and drink dark beer after class as I try to deconstruct this maniac world and me with it. I listen to jazz and let myself be swept away by impromptu existentialism. I let my fingers rest in the sand. I let my fingers rest in the sand. An entire cosmos between my fingertips, this Wachowskian conundrum that's got us all mixed up because our philosophic sixth senses are all piqued at the sight of danger, at the prospect of a good fight. The noble savage and the modern man wrestle like biblical characters and this exiguous reality's got me wondering why I'm even here. She lies from her heart and I eat it up like candy. When is she coming to pick me up from the playground? Someone spilled water in the sandbox and it's turning into concrete with me in it.
