A walk through my head brings all sorts of memories. The lies that I tell myself so I maintain a sense of identity in spite of its irrationality. A cell is born in time and splits in two. My mind wanders and wraps in on itself.
Illusion, illusion, fount of all fiction. The outer world collapses and shatters into eternity.
Angel forms and rings orbit around each other to sing in distant fever songs. A somber portrayal, the shapes that shift all back and forth and replace me in my mind, cast their shadows on the water and rise and fall like the barrier of my breath as the world bears down on my chest. (Refracted through clasped hands, tumbling back into void. A filter through which I speak vedantic tongues. Am I not simply an array of patterns with grids of bodies in empty space biting at my heels like the ghost of the flame of god?)
Unrest made manifest like ancient threads borne of a barren loom, grim chance and shaky hands to tease knots from loose ends.
It drips down upon my memory. Old passages of time forgotten but yet remaining. Locked away deep within the varnished hull of my chest. Lurking behind every breath or just sitting, asleep and permeating my mind with restless waves of dreams, collapsing into puddles, bearing my reflection in their ripples like the answer to a riddle I