Hollow morsels of gold flecks hit the bottom of the sink.
I stare into them with intensity and my body stays stiff while I'm on the brink.
I can feel the numbness of my soul, body, and mind, but I can't feel the flecks.
They're different from me, so much different, and yet they feel the same as me.
A strange link of connection. A fascinating look at the tides of depression and emotion of numb.
Like the tides of typewriting fools dipped in rum.
And as I touch it with my finger,
Everything fades away.
But writing is how I see the people around me, but in my own truth.
A truth that is mine, mine only.
You aren't meant to understand the words that flow through my fingertips,
Not unless you've flown through my brain.
Like my mind's personal tour on a train.
