Immersion.
I've been shifting through a puddle of mirages lately, walking realms fluttering against my eyelids. Music, empty cameras, explosions, clogging vapors -dark red buildings collapsing. Aching decades running races with the rain, cosmic silhouettes morphing into patterns on the walls and I can't look away, sucked into Edo and listening for its secrets. Two weeks ago, my mother is driving me home while I finger my bangs and go: hair is only dead thoughts and I'm glad you cut it, there's more place now, see. And her laugh is kinda forced but I can see her eyes searching and I wonder how much more my mind will grow. I've been limiting my showers to three per day and sleeping an uncertain amount of daytime, watching the blue clearing every morning. I smoke in sighs and wander as worded chains creep up my ankles. November, wrapping itself around my bones and turning lungs, recycling fumes and novels. Fires in crescendo burning behind angelic glass, fists blasting them into shards of delusional puzzles -each piece splintering into tiny screaming mouths.