Impingements
A stomach churning invasion of impingements on the ears and the inner alcoves of the cranium.
Akin to a machine spitting out screws ricocheting off the floors and tinkling in circles, in counterpoint, to the scraping of chairs and metal boxes 12 feet above your head.
As a banana might be injected with bromated flours just to make it softer, more malleable, mush—are the interior contents of the skull of the Cro-Magnon that lives in the apartment above you.
Free writing, while certainly free, takes a toll on the psyche, but in this case, it’s quite expensive—and unusually difficult to exorcise once you’ve lost all your senses—in the auditory version of the death of a thousand cuts.
Except this is a lot less fun.
Like punching a nest full of wasps inside your head.
Be free. Be free.
What I’m Reading:
“Loneliness arrives on a leash of scorpions.
In my skull, loneliness opens like a parachute.”
—Eduardo C. Corral / “Lines Written During My Second Pandemic”
thee istsfor manity reader 