Entirely oh-known disproportionate to stream. Published all in a book somewhere that hasn’t been written yet. The words I gave to the mirror’s eyeball a hair’s breadth through the glass from my own. Do day, were I to tell you I still sometimes have flashbacks, would you believe me? I was run over by a train, and mostly those have stopped. But I cannot describe many things. The grass still in a nonwind floats for me as though it were all underwater, sometimes. I hear angels breathe in my sleep and wonder what it must feel like to finally die. How blissful it can be. And I roll over and hit the disposable vape bar and feel icemelt flood my lungs and coarse exhausted through my capillaries. And I watch the people of the world celebrate their observations of one another and feel happy and strange. The strangest sort of strange. Undertow foreverlong wavelengths. Ripped in half by an undercarriage going godspeed. Would I then open up my heart to life and let in the warmth of the love of everything? Would then maybe finally understand?