It isn't deep. It's tired.

I want someone to photograph my brain.

Because I want to prove that what I think isn't necessarily what I see.

PAUSE THE MONOLOGUE: Has anyone ever thought so rationally that what they think is see?
What they what they what they what they what theywhattheywhattheywhahtythathatytae
I'm sitting alone on 19 floors. alone. the same place on every floor. alone - so there are no janitors. building: In a noir town: With twiggy trees: made out of playdough.

Successively. Heads of mine crash on desks and booms are heard. 19 terrific booms.
It's windy outisde.
So I'm sleeping. 19 times. That should cover time. I should have slept but I was the one who didn't. Until odd times - I wish I could sleep until odd times.

There are films about insomniacs. But they're usually on drugs or life trips and I'm simply 19 people, so I guess this is the master plan. And master plan co-ordinates sleep. At least some part somehwere is happy.

Sleep heads desks 19 times, red walls - did I tell you that? Here have my shoulder - because it hurts and i don't want it anymore.
Then the rest of it turns liquid. on the floor, all the time, If it weren't varnished I could be a building, but instead I'm puddles.

Cue the janitor - it's got a mop. and it picks me up and dumps me oustide where I can eat apples off of the playdough trees. Gray playdough - I think I lost my colours for awhile becuase a magazine told me too. (when you mop puddles they become a bucket full so now I'm not on 19 floors - which doesn't matter becuase the building collapsed and now i'm free in film noir somehwhere between trees and big black. ) The Big Black.

This means nothing by that way so stop trying. You at your desk with your pencil. This all means nothing, and it smells salty too. And like alum. SOMEONE TAKE THE FUCKING SHOULDER BLADE. JUST TAKE IT.

The bones aren't so viscous. It's the right word. Think about it.
It's melting and there isn't even summer in the picture.