The skittering beams of light seemed playful; this was progress - just a few hours earlier they had been terror - helicopters, blades chopping the light, waiting for him to make a mistake. It passed. Now, the light was thin and giddy, girding the apartment pretty. He thought of halos and wondered; he smelled an unidentifiable smell. It didn't smell like anything. But it sure as hell didn't smell like nothing. The mint in his mouth was too strong. He tried to spit it at the trashcan and a Newport skittered across the floor, trailing sparks.
This was funny. He laughed his ass off. He laughed until his face froze, contorted into a visage that felt wrong. Forced. It felt like he was wearing some kind of mask, like he was the mascot - he didn't want to be a fucking mascot. He looked at his hands and traced the veins up his arms. There was a baby crying somewhere in the building. It hurt him in a way - in a place - he never would have expected. He hadn't known it was there.
He is you and you are him and you're both a part of the madness that is we. That's confusing, but who wants simplicity? Not me. I want to step into the mud without testing its depth with a stick. I want to feel myself sink slowly into a mass of sludge until it fills my mouth, ears, nose, my everything. Until I am the mud and the mud is me. Strange as that may be - there are stranger things for us to see.
See ... you gotta figure that your brain is like a card catalogue put through a wood chipper - Dewey decimal madness. It's shredded in there. Or filled with holes. Either way, it's become something like cheese; you slice off the outer skin to get through the moldy parts - down to the pale, good parts that remain to be eaten.
You fucking grate that shit.