There Was a Man

There was a man

There always was a man.

Listening to the alleged voices inside my head.

One cannot be (too) sparing avec les fruits. C’est vrai. Vraiment vrai. Vraiment véritable. Vraiment véritable vrai. (Very table). You know, sometimes I think there are ghosts poking me. And think about your sleep. Man, do you know what happens whilst you are a-sleeping? ‘Course you don’t. T’es out. Sawing loggies. Loggiwogs. Assuming there are ghosts, don’t you think that that would be a time when they would come out? Don’t you think that while you toss and turn your last few times, trying to make yourself as comfy as possible, right when you’re about to hit unconsciousness, a ghost will come in and poke you ever so softly on your side?

Listening to a song on drugs.

Gosh.

It’s a little traumatic. It’s like déjà vu and fever and insanity and a grinding mix of a lot of the sounds you heard before in your life, and maybe the sound of how you’re feeling right now. Poor paranoid people. They must hear shit. I think I’m paranoid. Sometimes when I listen to it, depending on what I’m on, and I guess on how I was before too, it sounds like grinding. Like a machine. Like an awful truck going by right next to your window in traffic. And a bit like static. And also a bit like a monster. So you’re frightened because you think it might eat you. Maybe this is just a ‘bad trip’.