wisefool

I can hear a revolving friction as I feel its vibrations frisk my spine and work their way up to slowly shake the dust from my mind. Sitting back, I contemplate how a distant vocal chatter will create a social wave that slowly amplifies into an emotionally traumatic monsoon; naturally determined to drown its victims in a tsunami of anxiety. Faintly, I remain hopeful, trusting that smart minds are cautiously judicious of their sloppily gullible ears.

Bright lights, white and red—yellow and green, flash by, artistically smearing life into the bleak night, as joyously nebulous anticipations zoom past, naively self-limiting and doused with an odorously narcissistic self-absorption, streaking past the strobing lights of tunneled visions, collectively wishing for a one night stand with greatness, however transient it may be. Gracefully striving to achieve greatness through contemporarily commercialized alchemical concoctions, metabolizing fermented follies, infusing powerful potions, relinquishing our socially inhibitory guards from their strenuous duty, unleashing lingual looseness, a climbing climactic of verbal libido, laughter feeding off laughter, a flowing stream of epicness and a night to top them all. So they say.

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Say hello to my frontal lobe.