Sometimes things don’t work the way you expect them to. Aerosol machines sneeze backward. The memory lane shifts between black and blueish dot lines across the magnum orifice, protruding as basalt-made incandescent irises. These urges to cut one’s fucking throat and just let it pulsate in the open, subjected to all sorts of airborne conditions and thwarted infections, cannot be tamed by pill prescriptions and morning joggings. You need more, fuck it, you really need more. You subject yourself to lung tests, x-rays, magnetic resonance images, and conscious-altering regimens. You cut your own hair – not because you want it, not because you need it, but because you don’t let anyone else touch your follicles, let alone your skin.
You try to convince yourself that things will work out in the end. But you just feel sick, there’s this unknown item, this unidentifiable element, this radioluminescent object deeply stuck in your dura mater, fucking piercing and tearing everything apart. Electric shocks throbbing down your face, the perspiration, the pain, you drop to your knees and you cry uncontrollably.