drain

i can feel

myself

slipping away

This air is dead, hot and static, its slow and painful hanging interrupted only occasionally by the lightest hint of a current. It is a soft dance, slow and seductive, teasing the tips of hair strands already on full alert. They bow for a moment, grateful, and it's enough to make you wonder whether it was worth it at all.

i ve lost

myself

somewhere between TV waves and comic strips, that void where strained eyes ease into a dull blur. It's all a blur, vague impressions stamped on soiled, smeared nothingness. Everything's in focus, but nothing's in focus. Each shape is every shape. Eyes get lost in the abyss, eyes that never want to come out again.

everything slides

away

I often used to wonder what happened to everything flushed down my toilet – dead goldfish, used up tissue paper, and the like. It never was so much where it all went – where it ended up, that is – as much as how it got there, twisting down forgotten pipes, disappearing forever within a hidden labyrinth. I could picture that maze of pipes – tangled, artless – and I would watch that little trickle of water rush through. I never made it all the way through to the imagined ending, whatever it may have been. The pipes were what interested me.

i feel myself

intangible

writhing away

sliding down

the drain