The only thing you could ever know is that you exist.
This key fits but is it enough to open the door?
the lock seems to be letting flits of maddness in and round and all about in this reality.
and i find no comfort in pervious attempts and ideas to resist it.
Isn't it odd how one wants to feel the slipping away state so that they may understand what it is to dangle?
it feels as though we've spun a 180 and yet my health slips.
mute was invented for this time/moment/reality exactly/precisely/perfectly.
questionable and static; the life monitor snows.