I got home in the duration of one tool song.
I hit 98mph.
my father asks me : " when will you have a day off? "
all I could think of was that our government is somewhat anarchic
I told him : " not any time soon. "

he said " you've been working for twenty days straight "
...
I left the room.

sometimes I believe I may need a brain enema.
but then I realise that would do no good.
there is nothing to wash out.
no reasons. no answers.
no light at the end of the tunnel,
nor distingushable tunnel to guage distance.
just some fabrication I imagine to be myself.
in a world full of mirrors,
and ghosts. phantoms. shadows.

and the occasional echo.
echo.
echo.
echo.