"Do not trouble yourself much to get new things; whether clothes or friends...sell your clothes, keep your thoughts..." - Henry David Thoreau
Have never felt so much like being in a blender/food processor.
What a thought eh? Well, holding on to the rusty railings around me and watching the floor beneath me crumble slowly into some sort of black void that does not seem that dark.
Under the roof,
In a yellow room,
Eyes all around and voices scattered.
Want to disappear.
Want to dissipate.
Want to just meld into the furnitures that surround.
Feel the light heavy on top,
Is it just me?
Does the yellow begrudge me?
The room grows small,
Constricting slow but with conviction.
And you are far,
Too far for my empty,
Come on near...