Something.

they decided to hit eject on a Tuesday.

his educated mind will wander off about
his children, his wife, his misfortunes,
his fortunes, his knife going
into my body, my abdomen,

my distorted reality.

my many attempts to reach a silent God
might stimulate through twilight anesthesia—

let the sky be half full while I'm under,
only leave me to the ether if it's blue,
and if the truth is only darkness
then let this be somewhat of a prayer.

let this prayer spawn a god.

because when I wake up, the sky will
return to half empty and my lymph node
will become a bee in a fucked
up swarm of matter, atoms, shit.

According to Malthus, my lymph node
includes a massive population of negative
cells infiltrating positive ones—

something like a third dimension

of hungry cells in An Essay on
the Principle of Population.

whether you understand this
or not means nothing to me.

I despise that word.

nothing.