The brush bristles screeching the black chalk into devouring paper sweeping, switching colors as the clock blinks and changes times and the terminal moonglows waiting, humming, obediently, ominously, calmly.

Then, moving my head, all the objects in the room become three-dimensional, turning slightly as they swim, diving as my head tilts as my back sways cracking my neck, stretching my shoulders my back, hanging loose off my dead skeleton.

All of a sudden, I collapse. The air has become quite transparent, the electrical cords are hanging shadows on the achey steel wall, the brown jacket hangs expectantly, waiting for someone to get inside of it.

As the music gets louder, I feel the old power returning to these dead white limbs, and again I can write coherently. What a joy it is to lose one's mind, or not to have a mind!

-"stinky" QPM -- 1