This morning at 3:17, I was overcome with eleven streams of thought in angel dusted delirium—maddening monsoon of mentality—frigid palm shellacked in viscid phlegm. I ferociously shook my arm leaving my hand limp yet unable to shake the iced lubricity from my fingers; spread wide and webbed to avoid touching one another. My mouth opened beyond any ligamentous shearing point—jaw muscle cramped in blistering knots. My mood indescribable, my perspective fevered. An emerald isosceles trapezoid twirled within my left eye—five points notated in silver nimbus, rotating counterclockwise—splintering my vision in undulating octaves. As weird as this sounds, the strangeness had all but begun.
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