Matter does not suit me very well it appears.
Spirals of madness dwell within this husk that is "being". Paranoia eats at periphery and tangental diatribes slip from clumsy lips. Comprehension is heavy, the tongue doth speak so low, forgetfulness drains the rest leading to the manifest of demented anger and a tiredness who glares around wickedly. There is something off with the right hemisection. There is something wrong and it aint right. The disconnect manifests in disconnect and a "psychic off" that people taste and spit out in distaste, or drink up until bare bones lay washed up on the sand, salt encrusted and brittle. Tiredness inspiring longing to be the ethereal being one's past self did long for. To ethereally blend into the background noise of the universe and observe undisturbed by sentient others for all time. Heavy is the iron rusty soul that dwells among man.