Intoxicated with entropy;
the cold, hard flush of data pouring in.

As if your world
could be split by atom smashers;
and the half-lives of angels
would be
filtered into my bloodstream.

So many hours pass,
yet I feel I have timelessness at my hands.
The clock runs,
and like barnacles, we latch onto
the percolating substances
of our internal biorhythmic identities.

catch phrase:
the principle identity
of my obsession,
my transmutation,
into Purgatory and/or Hell.

Here I am,
confiscated and inebriated
without a window to wash.

I can see you though,
peering through the passenger side window.

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