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