disorientation
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who is worthy of this name
what am I
but the universe
fused and twisted into
psychosis
she spits back what I spit up
and not for one second am I
the same as I was.
In a mind with no terrain A way forward is deemed impossible Instead a cloud looms, attempting shape Stirring itself indefinitely As if constant flux will produce its form Its stagnant slosh makes me nauseous So, pained, puzzled, a
