Brianstorm

Nothing is happening here, and you can smell the embarassing smell of brains being eated. (I'm trying to sell it before it sells me.) I'm embarassed. Lying on a table where Jesus, the Pope, my family and Mother Theresa examine the curious content of my maniacal mind I study their eyes with that typical pain in the corner of them, bringing pain to the brain apart from that that is already being injected in it by the horrid vision of their overwhelming fake implicit kindness. All is still, and the piece of wood I am is not pretty. Every now and then there awakes the underlying fear of having run too much, for too long and too far away. That bugging sensation of being at bay, that tickling, that light sensation in the stomach which is the heaviest I've felt. All this we've been sitting upon is to fall apart. And I am standing still, still I'm standing, still I'm staying and they do not understand why. I've lost the whole pack of sanity and the previous controlled life. I'm nowhere now and no one wants to find me anymore apart from that body, that other one, that keeps this one going. And I'm being quietly, educatedly raped and torn in this small untransposable world, these immense destroying criminal needs, this fire and this life surrounded by water. And your so wanted hand lies in its pocket, your so appropriate pocket, everything in a pocket, while mine masturbates, I so inopportunetly masturbate, everything here masturbates and I cannot touch her vicious thighs for I do not want to do so. And from time to time I try to convince myself I want it just so, if i manage to do it, I have something I want. I'm all sold out, worn down and gone, and you do not want to stand my stains, I stain, I understaind. Meanwhile(it is, trully, a mean while) I sit and pray, then I remember I do not believe in God and I preach, for it fits better. And I try to want things I can have, but I do not want them, and I'm not that good a storyteller to distract myself.