If only for just this one night, writer's block has lifted it's cruel grasp and allowed me to produce sounds once more.
As I write this, I'm in a very strange place I often visit on nights like these.
I'm in a place where the smallest details from my day have been bloated, as if by a form of macropsia that exists only in the subconscious, to levels held for the immensely important and critical.
Caring about people and inconsequential situations until I cry... loving people in ways generally reserved for erotomaniacs and the criminally insane.
Anyone who says that drugs are the most powerful tool for leaving the body behind and changing perspectives is a damn fool.
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