Some Thing I Jotted Down

When I breath the essence is in me

My food is tasteless, I don’t need it

I am physically redundant

Sensations are clearer inside me

The sun is more real in my mind

And touch is fabricated by the sense

But yet; my imagination is useless

__________________

A musing by me, I don’t think it could be called prose.

Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.
– Charles Bukowski

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