They’ve put me into a special kind of chemistry.
Where fans rotate in my stomach and noxious red gases bubble in my neck.
This is a place where bright birds die laughing from electrical fires catching inside my head.
There is no kind of geography to describe how every little tributary of my passions is now dissolving.
No mathematics can precisely recapitulate the process that gives me actual gold when I pick my nose.
My body, somehow both flying and non-physical, will never come to rest where it first started.
I’m full to the bursting with a shiny and impossible substance.

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