100 Words Only
My mind is an abstract masterpiece of the devious and dubious, a traitorous trickster, jealous jester, and callous handed croupier, chasing lethal fumes of ammonia and bleach: afterthoughts, into a man-made match lit tunnel known as, Disaster, meeting tomorrow’s runaway bullet train, The Lullaby, head on, knocking me into the questionably sane side of today, while yesterday’s memories shake violently, their cries foreshadow the harvest of my very presence and yet to be future: grinding out of control on slippery tracks, there’s no escape from this dimness, confined, caged against my will, I’m at the mercy of my captor: myself.
“What fresh hell is this?”
― Dorothy Parker, The Portable Dorothy Parker
Yaël Naïm – “Toxic”