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July 25, 2016
It's in a fit when I see it. It comes on a raft of confusion. Chaos is its pilot. Its craft rides the mind to its core and degenerates to a wide panorama of smiling dolls, till all that I can see or feel is a panic house of screams. The screams are songs, serenades. They calm me. I laugh with the irony. The laugh is private. I own it, though. No one can take it from me. I will hold it tightly. Each time I ride the raft, I laugh in silence, as the screams float madly to heaven.