Finger banged in the mindhole

segal

My thoughts are like puss in the boil that’s my brain that I lanced and now their stinky, buttery goo-goo is splattering out staining the walls and dribbling down the back of my neck and over my cheeks and dripping off my chin like blistering hot lotion full of wishes and dreams and frustrations, and I’m rubbing it hard into my skin, absorbing the ideas and the fantasies and the musings. And now I’ve got a rash.

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