You can’t sleep. Tossing and turning. Phone’s ringing, algorithm’s spitting, bell tolls, go clock in. Push papers, its all 0s and 1s these days, and the boss wants the big bucks. Turns out every spot’s the Krusty Krab no matter the aesthetic.

“Splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces” says President JFK. Images of crisis, sleep always in bed you wake up familiar. Don’t you wish the whole world was perfect. You open up, water boarded. It was actually all a dream. Or was it. The brain plays it back, it’s the 60s and you’re schizo.

Wait what who’s Epstein and what’s in the files? Your left hand is hungry but it whispers in your ear, no matter what you know no one cares.

Everything is actually a bad dream. Constructed by chaos. Vietnam War ran back. This time in isolation, all alone, every place our own pigsty. The Black Panthers were a big group all hanging out, free food, chilling, with bombs falling from the sky. Run it back, say hey kid, play dead. Oh wait did you hear of El Niño. I wonder where you’ll hide kid.

Schizos acting up again. Image overload. Sock puppet chit chatting, what if they get me. But then again, what if they don’t. You gotta go outside and get some vitamin D some of the time. Live a little. Burn a little.