Sat with the 40 milligram tram ride ticket in hand, golden coupon to a distant land, I smoalk... intoning...blank minutes give awakening to pandemonium. There's a rocket, there's plutonium, there's a mushroom cloud on the horizon... god damn this is HIGH son, higher than high and terrified, intermolecular deleted and fractalised.
There's moar in there and Someone Who Is Me knows it, he smo's it, king smoal takes my brain and throws it at the panel before it slips through the hoop, before the entities play juggling flaming rain-sticks living in a loop living in a loop in a loop in a loop in a LOOP!
Is this right, am I me? Is this.... neither good nor evil, insectoid transparent weevil, digging through the produce, extracted alkaloid from alkaline juice, a fractal moose with horns that fight with themselves, like the body parts of the self-transforming machine elves who I definitely do not see. But they see me in the corner with the glass horn melting into the walls.
I got my neurons sold from the stalls in the marketplace of the mind, I vaped some DMT and I died, I came back and I cried no tears, it was rain and I was the sky.
Art Van D'lay wrote:Smoalk. It. And. See.