Whatever have I not done?
However do we cover the silence?
When should I sink into the churning neon exhilaration of terror and when do I shout back at cold clamouring midnight ghosts solidifying the air?

The sweat dissolves boundaries, I'm dreaming of red light,
trapped in the first person pronoun I've become the desk chair you
sit on and the walls watching you slab-faced watching you up and down,
all signs point to action. Abstraction. Sit down, I'm boiling
hot about to scald some uncautious thing.

Whatever have I done was I not a ripe good fuck why shrink things down now
why now why here?