I mash my palms against my eyelids, clenched tight. The colors swirl and atoms and molecules and tiny planets are created and I never opened my eyes again.

The bureaucratization of the imaginative mind is the bane of mankind. You stupid fuckers are looking in the wrong direction. Wake up you salty fool. Your exposed wounds are nothing. They do not exist. There is no form, only function that inhabits an empty room with whitewash walls and one small window. There is no theory, only misguided action. You dirty pile of plastic electrons. You believe that you are holding life in your hands but you are dead. You hold your hands out and beg for change but you are crawling with worms. You create a life and live through it but you hate it and you are dead. You fear the end to this shithole because you know it is already over and you are just waiting for verification from your own personal messiah.

You remember when this happened but it was long ago and the paint has weathered and eroded. Your casket has already been purchased with your line of credit from the bank of jesus.