Derail

Another of my found writings, which just show me how far I've travelled since this feeling made me take pen to paper to permanence.

Can’t feel anything in this flight from you or myself and the empty roar within in me. My thoughts are scattered across the past, present, and future in a reconstructed haze of recollected premonitions. Your nose-wipe life befouls any dash to restitiution and deadens the point of the directional needle. Where is which-way, and who are they; am I to confuse when with how? Riddles for the sake of insanity and limbo read like obituaries in my latestest yellow journalism sensational. Hot off the press, lingering bathroom piss, tortured daily remiss: derailment of bliss.