My eyes refuse to close at the thought of the good. Can't make myself dream, and I don't think I should. For all of my dreams will make me go back, and start a vicious chain. And I feel so detached, so lost, so displaced. It's just my reality is vastly effaced. When all I can think is no more words exchanged, the warmth of my telephone started to shrink. And I'm in a coma, I'm trying to get out. I'm getting real down, my situation has doubt. Now I just will not have this, I must make this stop. I'll run out on my street and put my lungs out up top. I won't be done, I'm not on planet Earth. Until it's all back together. I'm going to fight, I can't do this. It's not happening. I'm freaking out. A rush in my stomach made me let it all out. Claustrophobia set in, and I was fighting the crowd. My eyes are so heavy, but the stomach worms won't stop. They're scaling the levee of the river that floods my thought shop.
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