I am walking around, blind and asleep, stones falling out of my mouth, as if I had never seen my own face before. I can no longer persuade myself to believe anything, because I can no longer believe in anything. I can no longer tell a lie because everything I say has absolutely no meaning, it is just words, just words, just collected salivia, rolling off into sound and syllables, drooling from this mouth that seems larger than material, larger than my whole self, and I follow it everywhere.

And I keep leaving all these pieces, this trail of marshmellows leading me home, hoping someone will pick them up behind me. I want to forget my address, my genensis, my name, and I want you to give me new ones. I don't care who I am, but that I am- or perhaps not even I, but that existence is.

This isn't negativity. This is the objectivity of despair, the crowning lips, reveling in its own indulgence. This is my body, it speaks, this is the material that contains me from bursting. Its eyes burn with its own nudity, honesty, vulnerability, as if it were a sheild, blinding and irreversible.