Sean

Over my head. It was cold at first but with friction came heat and light. I'm just sitting here. I wish I was in over my head. Wait, now I'm moving again. Did I ever stop? Is it all in my head? I'm just moving in relation to things, that are moving in relation to other things, that are moving... What's the point? Where is this going? What's the story? The story is, there is no story. Close your eyes, take a breath and count to ten because this is it. Move. Breathe. Mate. Make. Self-consciousness is paralytic. Let that monkey out. Draw on the wall, stop putting it all into boxes. Wait, the boxes are all you have. Hoard the boxes. Stack the boxes. Love the boxes. Be a box. Box. Box. Boxing! It's a fight, a fight to the death. Can I die? It's not a sprint, it's a marathon, there's the finish line but what's beyond? I'm beside myself trying to make scents of it all. Like Toucan Sam I just followed my nose. I sniff blackness, taste of oil on my tongue filling my sinuses, tinting my vision. It's the black arts, it's voodoo, it's in me. It's making the kids shake their asses, it's Brad, Jen and Angelina in the checkout line and it's anything that roots in shit and reaches for the sun. The end is the beginning so it never quits, it's push as much as it's pull and it has no name.