MINIMALISM AT ITS BEST.

I dare you to read this out loud.

Chemicals, just fucking chemicals in my head.

Hundreds of years of poetry building pretty pictures in our heads with sun singing through the cracks and branches of trees making fractals to heaven; all reduced to rubble. Ruins. The chemicals in my head.

Manic phases of pictures flashing polaroids creasing cracking burning in my head. Reduced to rubble, ruins. The chemicals. In my head.

Laying in bed and the light of my lavender lamp never looked so mathematic; grid-like patterns unlock the secret mysteries of being and time. Being. And time. Reduced to rubble. Ruins. The chemicals in my head.

Locked in, loaded and ready to go with shoes tied tight and muscles stretched, loose and limber lumbering along the sidewalk with lumpy sounds following my toes. The frigid feeling of letting go. Letting go keeps going and shivers spin down my spine like spiral bound wire. Shivers and wings keep going. Reduced to rubble, the catalyst of feet running releases chemicals in my head that keep me stumbling for that energetic push.

Ruins. Reductionism at best. The chemicals in my head. They bulldozed a pathway to empirical reality, as if nothing were left except these strange clustering vertices of nerve endings in all of existence that somehow collide with antennae twitching responding attacking retracting distracting but not quite truly interacting. Creating something that's not really there like Thom Yorke said.

The chemicals. In your head.

But still, somehow this isn't the whole story because there's an extrinsic quality to the chemical reactions that feels almost unexplainable. And while we try to fathom we call it intrinsic because we feel this sparkling magic fills us from within and makes us glow, but we really we don't see, the underlying pattern to reality; the flow between our complexities; you say there's this outer connection a network of souls that we might call spirit. That spirit manifests itself through the physical presence of all beings, said the doctors: we call this dymethyltryptamine. The seat of the soul rests in your head. The chemicals. That's what they said.

And so it is ruins. The hundreds of years of poetry building dimensions of untouchable Eden. Dynamically destroyed. Trees of Eden all dead. By the chemicals in your head.