Delirium (Ontology Rejects Reductionism)
White-washed ceilings turn to sky, January in July. Does this mean I’m going to die? No one’s with me anymore; a technicolor spirit corps of empty, former cynosures. So have I closed my eyes, or have I opened them tonight? Am I listening? Is what I hear right here to hear? Have I lost myself in colored, rising lines as the echoes fade and memories die? Crisp Chablis and sun on seas, German streets where none should be. A novel neural frozen scene? I won’t speak my given name. "Won't" and "can't" become the same, works and days compress to frames. So have I closed my eyes, or have I opened them tonight? Am I listening? Is what I hear right here to hear? Have I lost myself in colored, rising lines as the echoes fade and memories die?