Silenting laying across a bed of cards,
listening to the thoughts of a flammable bag of skin.
Wondering when this bag of skin will step too close to the flame,
the flame of insanity.... or is it dementia?
Is there a difference?
Bobbling back and forth through an unsteady ocean of coherency.
Will this bag never burn?
I wish this bag would burn, burn until there is nothing left. Only then may something useful become of this bag. For the ashes could be turned to mud and mud is surely more useful.
Perhaps being hopeful the ashes turn into a brilliant bird of worth would be nice, although there seems to be nothing brilliant or hopeful in this bag of skin.
What a noisy bag of skin, can it even hear itself? Does it have ears? Does it enjoy the grating crap it fills the air with? Maybe I could finally feel warmth if I lit this bag of skin myself!?
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