While it appears that I'm focused, if you look closely you'll see my entire brain's been replaced with wet cotton balls.
I keep getting into those modes where nothing makes sense, where I'm nothing. Sometimes my head get's so full of nothing I think I just might have to twist it off, like the cap on a bottle. I get locked on. Locks. Cows and mooing and grass. Lawnmowers and gasoline. Mowing. Yes? No? Have you ever had the experience where water isn't wet? Where things don't taste like they should, my ice cream tasted like celery and sometimes I have smells like old butter that follow me around for hours. Old butter tastes like oranges. My cat has fleas and I think he gave them to me, but they must be underneath my skin. I feel them crawling on me, I don't like it. My psychiatrist doesn't take me seriously, I have OCD according to the Wild Man. OCD, funny. I'm not obsessive, I'm contemplative. Not compulsive, I'm impulsive, gogogo.
You know, if you think something too loud someone might hear it. I don't like to think certain things, someone could know all the disgusting things I've done. Disgusting. Ugh. I'm getting fat, I eat too much there's nothing else to do. I don't want people, no people please, byebye go away. I think I might be ok with not speaking forever. Or not moving. Unless I get filled with all the nothing again, then I couldn't survive. Move move. Not anxiety, it's nothing. Nothing makes me do it. Makes me do it. What's wrong with me? Preoccupation with my own thoughts and perceptions. Not disorganized, just venting you see. You see. No. I'm a fool for talking this way, so silly, my eyes are vibrating. I'm a fraud, there's nothing wrong with me, my problems don't exist I'm just "scared of the dark". Yes no. Maybe. I don't think so. They don't exist! You don't exist! Strangers on a train, always look the same. Look at me. Talking. Tell me about me, I don't know. Do you understand? Yes no. Maybe. You don't know, hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha I can't seem to squeeze a laugh out of me it got stuck in my trachea somewhere between neurosis and normalcy. Psychotic? They say no. Maybe so, I don't know. Here we go. He says paranoid, silly boy, I have better eyesight than you, you don't know. Randomize your vocabulary and you get word salad! Delicious. I'm not disorganized, venting you see. I'm a fraud, you see, a fake. No boxes can hold me, oh well, so it goes.
I think my brain might melt through my eyes but that's life I guess. So it goes.