Staring at the walls; they keep closing in
This is the claustrophobia of an eternal sleep
Where the cracks in the ceiling ooze black essence
They scab, and blister, and flake, but never heal
It’s becoming increasingly hard to tell what’s real
Or the figment of a saturated imagination
Is the world spinning? Are the true flickers there?
There is no such thing as reality in this situation
The vividity, the vivacity, is swallowing the earth from the blue
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