Whatever.
Feeling so,
Overextended?
Stretched,
Way past my limited limits.
Mind,
Racing,
Constantly.
About this and that,
Mostly,
Nothing really pressing,
Like the solution to world peace,
Or what-the-fuck-ever else.
But little things,
And not money,
Never money.
I want a nice couch when I have a house of my own.
I wonder why there is napkins, and paper towel.
Like that.
In a room full of name tags with bodies attached,
and faces,
They had faces.
Through the folds their voices changed,
Muffled,
But very different.
Different,
And deeper,
But sweeter.
And the stares received,
The same as the texture of lava,
whatever that may be.
I wasn't even paying attention enough to feel it.
They just kept asking questions.
But I had all the answers,
written all over my body.
The only words that were legible were,
"S.O.S.,
get me the fuck out of here."
Everything else was scribbles,
and junk.
Must not have been very important.
Whatever.