Yesterday I got lost in a heatvent twice, I know I should have just kept out but it was too damn enticing.
I thought I knew my way back but I must have got turned around because the vent I entered into no longer vent where I remembered.
Heating ducts to take me to an altered mental state, where one has trouble breathing air, but no trouble feeling great.
To travel inside of a body, travel inside of a vein, if the home is where the heart is then the attic is the brain.
Like a drain, for the dust, for the pain, for the unwanted items.
Items in your heatvents tend to stay and die for years until the day their body crumbles and give you dusty tears.
Filling space you thought so safe, in your room you feel the most.
Are you breathing heated air or are you breathing heated ghosts?
Oh, no.
Now I see it softer than an ice cube and it's sticking to your tongue, and I see static start to build and fingertips get stung.
It's like I can taste electrons now, just the slightest hint.
I'm still the only one I know, it seems, who dreams of being lint.
Well, now I'm lint.
I am no one that important.
I'll just collect myself in the corner, be some sort of tangible form of boredom.
Sampled, trampled and never very far from where you are standing.
I'll be collected and killed off like skin cells and runoff and sneezes and secrets and clues and insects and refuse and bleeding and breathing and heating and keeping the secrets bottled then fleeing.
Sparking, exploding, head first into black holes, digging and digging and digging and deeper and faster and farther than anything that has ever lasted and all that I hear is the devil laughing.
It keeps me together, it keeps me from blacking out, whiting out, I always know that he's always right and he's always right and he's always here and he's with me tonight.
And although he's losing and hooked up to tubing, I hear his voice through it and it sounds like dust, when he musters up, "
I love you."