Notebook 054

Do you watch as you become more fickle? Shutting off doors along your corridor with an ever-present feeling that you’re riding an escalator? I thought it was well-formed opinions but it seems I’m just bias. I can’t even trust my senses anymore as even these could be as false as the vacuous smile which spreads across my jaw. My mouth bleeds when I sleep, poisoning my dreams with sleepy red metal. Even that’s a lie because I don’t even dream. I wake with a mouth encrusted crimson and dry and I choke. I don’t want your charity you helpless shadow of samaritanism. Take your filthy hands elsewhere.