Talk.

It's all fiction, compactly stacked together, or lying scattered. And, accordingly, I sing. Or pretend to listen. Maybe it's all pretense- the way I think, understand. It's all on the same plate, randomly fried, or served without lettuce. On another level, I am like a twig, swaying to the beats inside my brain as they tick tock away on several notes. So I board the bus, tear the ticket to pieces, and notice the sky for the first time. The atmosphere behind changes- is ever changing. Colors hold hands and walk past me and I finish my daily ritual. I have faith, I fear a lot of things, and i wonder if everything connects like a fast moving graphic novel. Love belonged to a different era and tomorrow the light in your eyes will not gleam and focus on a brown door or the toilet seat.
So yeah sometimes my senses mingle and burst so then i open my mouth to find my grin transfixed stupidly and my jaws hurt or I do not open my mouth at all. I think dirty and imagine you wiping your nose on my sleeve and I am strangely familiar to you. Or i concentrate on one line and it stands out voluptuously till the lights go off and then there's nothing but a table and a new fluorescent green highlighter and my senses explode again.