I. Her brain flung words against the backside of her cranium. Each thought knocked back against her eyeballs, Spinning in their sockets as her brow and lips twitched In anticipation of the next hammer. It was a face used to being beaten.

The misery of sublimity shook crumbles out of rhythm ; Stooping and cursing she ladled her muffin from the floor As the passengers voided the cafe and....mumble, mumble, sway.

I went everywhere and nowhere. And I found that space was relative, That it didn't matter how many times round you kicked the earth beneath you.

All is well now. I am here now. It's okay,


She lounged about the wobbly chair and voices voices chained Thoughts into prisms of clatter now I'm here now All is well now. It's okay.

She flick fuck fuck and damnit struck; stop it, please stop it, All is well how, now I'm here now. It's okay. It's okay. Voices voicing mutters mumbling of dismay, Stop now. Stuck now. Go away.

I found the flung roses, Dancing on the graves, And in the stillness cherished by the warden Of dismay.

I found the epithet and read: "Wander, Wonder, Who Now. All is well now. It's okay." And I found that space was relative, That it didn't matter did it?


She was something different; that I'm sure was roughly awful. She was something different; who now, why now, why her? All is well now in her passing, I am here now. It's okay. And yet it's not. Or is it?

Is it ever okay? This cracking.

The fracture of the voidlings into ranting sun-struck cacklers, The bruising of the nimble ball of wrinkles wrapping our design, The tolerated illness of a thousand wobbling soul weaves Into a fabricated branching tree of strange purpose.

What is the purpose of our fallness?

I feel the tyrant's tongue.