Like music I’m not sure if I am hallucinating
As delicate sounds, like air trickling into a room from a cracked window
I feel them, when they talk about me, sometimes
And I’ll know the conversation before I close the office door
I heard it all last night, already
And I want to share this and be helpful
But I hate them. I fucking hate them so much. I want to watch them burned alive—
their flesh peeling from their bodies in shrieks of agony
As existence razed from the surface of this reality
Each day this bastardization unfolding
The intensity so vast, as if I am reading some unspoken texture to nature
And it is such that the volume is always dialed to eleven
As my mind sounds off every one of their species names in Latin,
reads every tag in the neighborhood, overhears conversations, vocal or otherwise
Into these affixing horizons
Where I feel so powerful and weak
And immense and small
Where the connection and disassociation fuse into the singularity
Of a massive bird eclipsing the sun
