I’m still recovering from this cold. Sleep comes easily as the mucasoid rivers flow. This kind of sleep is very rare for me, this kind of profound relaxation of the undamned. The little canals that are structurally set up to direct the mind always towards some destination of pain are averted, also flooded, also obliterated by the rushing tides of dream states. I avert dead-ends of the destiny of muttering subservience, which the mentally damaged ones allot me to, to please their sense of rigid vileness and dull conformity. Upon the fiery tides, I revisit my childhood and find it full of stardust. I reflect upon the superficial masculinists who are weepy women in their dull embrace of fathers of all stripes who require feminine subservience and a kind of masochism.I observe my social situations and see these sewers of the mind that trumped up souls have built for me, their images now floating away like wispy spirits — old fashioned ladies with parasols. I behold their insubstantiality and release all of these accumulated nasal fibres, blasting them to the seas.
