isora683

Are you alive? How can you tell? Your soul is a sinkhole. Your brain, a dry well. You're a person, it seems, but you know it's not true. You're a bundle of clips, strained elastics and glue. You look at yourself and you know you're not right. A building condemned to be knocked down a flight. The blocks and street corners are lined with their houses. With music and light, the whole populace rouses. They step and they drive and they talk and they mingle. While you remain empty, forgotten and single. You shamble and sputter, you wobble and stutter. Your skull is of gas. Your fingers of butter. You can't talk, you can't think, you can