A body without a mind is called dead.

It doesn’t dream or feel or be. It is blackness and the taste of morning.

 

Monday through Friday, coffee breath and a ham and cheese. I go to school, work, school, sleep. Repeat.

Monday through Friday, coffee breath and a ham and cheese. Now it’s work, school, work, sleep. Repeat.

 

Numb like Novocain, an insane brain that doesn’t feel a needle sliding through it.
A stab in the back feels like a massage to me, put your elbow in my tissue.

 

Time is a clock that has hands with no fingerprints.

It burned them off when it murdered Saturday and Sunday.

 

A week is a week, which is twenty-four hours, seven times in a row.
We really only exist in a second.

 

A mind without a body is called a soul.

Routine is the habit of the dead and I am a corpse walking in a circle made of sand, nothing more to be said.