As if suddenly cutting from the Gordian knot of my own existence. I find myself panicked like a child before some great event. Liberated my mind flies, throwing out ideas with the easy words of “Fuck it, who will read it if not soon?’

I’m been seized by my own mind, drunk on a twisted cocktail of booze, barbiturate, and dread. Lines of thought zoom off blindly like wildlife amidst growing brush fire. No glimpse no context, just creativity reduced to fight or flight. It is enough to know something is coming and that as your mind runs you cannot follow. You must instead stand, goose-skinned as every part of you stands one split hair away from a precipice you refuse guess the bottom of and forcing yourself to stand tall just the same.

And so now I am left in a swamp of dreams, of alien starfish controlled by small boys with RC toy controllers and worlds where zombies become natural extensions of war, their presence ingrained in strategy and myth like tired omens, both worshiped and hated.

Now if only one could silence that white hot panic long enough to plot them out proper.