We’ve got mail. And time. And money. And cosmetics. And caffeine. And perpetual acidic bile.

Staring at a spot, you feel like an oil swill, or perhaps a catarac is pervading your vision following your eyes.
Staring at the underside of the windowsill, you debate why it’s not painted. Thoughts drift while the mouth agrees.
Face becomes set while your ears pulsate and diaphragm quivers.
Indifferent, stagnant, vigilant in your repugnance.
Clingfilm walls come down. You’ve got miles of it in your head though. It either floats through or wraps round. Frequently it scrunches into balls and squeezes into gaps. The 4th wall mocks me with platitudinous frippery. And i drink it in with the clarinet and colloquialisms. Conditioned into expecting this and that but they haven’t got to the metaphysical directly yet so i know i’m safe there. Am i waiting, anticipating, forcing, hoping for some kind of reaction? Should it be involuntary or voluntary?
Fears hyperbole in your memory and prognostics.
Returning to the pathway facing the cave mouth. Impending liminality. Engulfed. Beguiled. Warm. Dripping?