Alone Room.

And then I'm floating. I'm just floating in outer space.

Twisting and turning through something else scary. Not scary like death, but a feeling that you've lost your arm or the cornea in your right eye. Like when you're a kid and the tickling won't stop--you laugh so hard it hurts; it won't stop; you scream out for it to stop; it won't stop; your muscles exhaust and your lungs touch your tongue; it won't stop; the knees don't come off your chest; it just won't stop.

Back to outer space. And then you're surrounded.

Sheet after sheet of black paper; floating on paints and pastels underneath rotten shoes and rotten bones. Like rockets strapped to my hind legs I shoot into whatelse. A cold damp room with magnolia stills and sandpaper walls. Of lavender gloom and misty fluorescence. Where two things blend unless you taste it up close.

But then you fall and scrape the walls only to bleed fingerpaints behind-- a mold of bug gut texture and slime of fishscale tint. The room is overwhelmed by glass and multipolyplastics; blue green visas shield eyes from UV sunrays. And tiny waves of ivory tickle rotten shoes and rotten bones.

And down I go.

And then I'm sitting. I'm just sitting in this corner cafe.

All that's between me is this buttered croissant and a dirty cup of water.
Me and this world. It's in the way.