That words have lost their cognitive significance. That what is spoken registers as the burble of roiling waters. That what is written appears a cross- hatching background to the visual stimuli that scrapes the retinal dreams of social upheaval.
I have scored silence on three fronts
I have spilt principal on guilty pleasures.
I have built means out of jelly-bean sprigs.
Scream that lofty scream, but leave my welcome mat unturned
Leave this place – my place – my private place. I have run out of things to say.