I dispelled arduous watches tick on laborious appareled macrocosms scatter spitting patter, teeming paved labyrinths searching for something to own orbiting the bench I sit on, envisaging celestial bodies slinging transonic ripples. Ether colliding into clouds masking infinite galaxies from a suffering and crawling universe destined for a hole in the wall, where the rats live; nibble, scratch, deconstruct, and reconstruct, cannibalize, fuck, and die.
         Does silence exist amongst the deucedly hot and dense state that incrementally dilutes vociferous dissonance illuming dynamic hurricanes, merciful gases, and asteroidal moats guarding engraved anthropomorphic landscapes?
        Probably not; fauna whisper, tear down, and settle, birth exigent infants and zealous appraisals, erect towers and castles; consciousness capitulates, inundates prisons, cemeteries, and landfills. Silence, in precipitous day dreaming, auspiciously reverberating webs espying arpeggios tomb the suburbs as one navigates in and out of trepidation to avoid being caught like a gnat, a quiet fucking bug with no cigarettes to burn.
       The impact flung me from the bench in the commons toward dusk disguising 16 acres with streetlights and homeless asking for squares on the roads to spurs and oaks, scattered acorns crepitating under my soles. Each  compressing sound pulling like gravity, transporting down roads with bouncing winds, subtle aglow, guides from defiant contours of Gods in the clouds, dandelions erupting side walks like tectonic plates seismically tear apart earth, the fog’s mist like ships floating into suns swimming like tadpoles; air undulates as I wave my hands against the wind, molding the space as clay.
       This city is mine, I tumultuously grow with it, and I mercurially oscillate with it as a memory inevitably plays. The past as a dream, is mine. The abstract present is mine, and the infinite future is not, yet they are given away for possession.
       Inept graffiti cartographically stain bricks providing a simpler search for portals made perfect for laying like a crescent moon near their opening edge, watching dawn lift dust and my eyelids, glaring off windows building and kissing the satellite towers on roofs, waking the mountains in the horizon, painting the sky, one could give a shit about the past, present, and future, the beginning is just as imminent as venturing any further.
      Embryonic sun rays mixing fluids and this coffee I nabbed to wake the day, having it enlighten the conversations one has with oneself; consisting of bellicose thoughts filtered, taboos accompanying bleating people, ubiquitous t-shirts, satirical newspapers, and indecorous magazines perpetually feeding me preliminarily eldritch reconnaissance as they dress into strangers.
      It could be time for another cup of coffee and cigarette? Or am I just floating off into enigma over the road becoming a sea?
      Gypsies contort into seagulls, shingles moving like tsunamis smashing down on metropolitan brick cities, Atlantis generation XYZ resting in an underwater valley, mountains sew gardens on the ocean’s bottom, signs buried, and I’m simply lifting back off into space.
      Complaints will suffocate; I’ll be out of town, however, I will miss those whom drowned.
       Good riddance.
      “Hello,” a soft resonation shaking the atmosphere.
       Resuscitation; back to reality…
       “Hello”, the voice repeated, “Are you going to be alright?”
       “Pardon, what happened?” I slurred.
       “You just fell several stories and your head is missing. This is astonishing how you can hear me, how I can hear you, are you in any pain?”
      “Um, I apologize, but I’m not really certain of what you are saying. My head is missing?”
       “Yup, it detached from your atlas, when you hit the asphalt, what is the last thing you remember?”
       “Having my head…well sort of, I remember staring at people on a bench in the commons it was kind of turning my stomach, making my head feel heavy, so I got up and walked. Explains the headaches and visuals, Where am I?”
       “You’re in my basement. I could hear your voice when I found you, even with your head, well, skull missing.”
        “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
         “I would have called an ambulance, but you told me not too, you wanted me to hear you, you kept insisting I hear your stories, so, I listened to your stories as I basically dragged you here. You would go in and out, talking then silent the next, and now you seem like you’re in at this moment; without a skull, your heads there.”
       “Well…I can’t see you… or the basement… and I am not in any pain… How long has this been going on, why did you listen to my stories, and what did I say?”
       “You know what you said.”
       “Who are you?”
       “I’m the only one who listened.”

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