no one ever really quits

his gin-soaked mouth a bleeding storm drain of cryptic fuckheadology

*

woke up, ejected from the edge of unconsciousness no less than four times, in a panic, his mind swirling with the colors of galaxies, crab nebulas, space dust, infinite terror. these visions no doubt a product of the silently flashing TV in the darkened bedroom; nonetheless, you can't see that shit and not fear that somehow maybe you're losing yourself

*

found in trance. in transparency