I spent the night picking mushrooms that grew in a field of electromagnetic glass. It may not even exist but I swear I saw it and you'll see it too. I felt shards growing like tumors from all directions. This is the point where we lose all logical reasoning. This is all that breaths life into anything anymore for those who fill blank canvasses with nails, bits and pieces of old cloth and friends they haven't spoken to in long enough that it causes them embarrassment. The face of this has color and a specific shape too but I just see the definition of lips. Lips like sandpaper with the texture of salt grain. My own tongue, now tasteless, reaches out for your words. I spell out your thoughts in tar and spit and remember that nothing can cause disgust when acceptance overwhelms with its weight. I'll run through the public greasy pubic hair, till the curls come out and clump into knots in my hands. I'll be left with the sensation of color and the thoughts of us not wanting the pigment to rot.