it is extremely humid
here
impossible to breathe
being swallowed up
in thick vapor
and stepping
into grayish-pinkish
slimy
quicksand
sinking down into
higher thought
how nice to be
human
what a miracle
to be able to
think
there are no wheels turning here
no perfectly placed
spokes and axles
no gears
there is no order here
just synapses
firing wildly
electric storm
dangerous hyperanalysis
obsessive compulsion
that we credit
with
creation
how lovely
to reign
superior
there is no light here
only pictures seen
in the dark
illusion
we have created a world
in our image
this is our fate
the others
they do not
wish
to be wise
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