Yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon.

Sane, are you? I don't think so in the least; in the least, there is a lack of opportunity in the guise of a yielding shield. Quite on the spot here is this theory, the theory that the universe orginated from a single bang, and that in the billionth of a second there was unity in disorganization. This is a true metaphor for the state of the mind; a metaphor which I ponder over and over within the confines of my walls of concord.
There was a rampling of the sheets under the cascading sky, and glamorous glitter touched the edges of thine eyes. It was a sight of such ogulent treachery to be so flagrant in appearance, and to come as vivid and underscene as the told tales of valiant men. I sat on the floor with these apprehensive thoughts, and this apprehensive mindset, and killed everything in the way of true and utter conquerance and defeat. It was a true challenge to overcome the mountains of built up creedence, and telling off the rabbit was a bit of an internal rockel. I came upon the decision that I would tell the smelling and smilling cat that it's face wasn't needed thoroughly in the essence of it all, and that I couldn't feel the understanding of the carniverous caulk that it called it's bones and limbs. I squeamed at the thought of such a reality, and cried the tears of the bleeding hearts.
I roasted samples of dreams on richly pasturized plants and ant hills, and let them swarm with the bees of creativity and silence. It was of high comedy, it was, this experience, and I longed for a life as enjoyable as this. But then I realized that I am only stuck inside of my mind, and that it's painful to be caught within the net of a dragon. It hurts, does it not, to not have the problem arms coming from out of your brain that do the appropriate things and attach themselves to the appropriate appendages of realism and shake hands in correspondence and cooperation? I know, for I can not seem to shake the hand of reality, as the hand of my mind is so white, and is only the refraction of the sun against my heart's amulet. This thought has been on my mind many days as of late, and has bursted the seams of my grand bureau open, exposing my wares to anyone who might cause them to be fired and ran down, lashed upon and excersised. Rememberance is only a face-lift above from sincerity, and is called upon only by the forces which you can not control; that is, the forces of everything serene and upon you, every weight that falls upon your shoulders not from emotion, but from the depths of the skies and the aural, oral, and all otherwise senses of the body, all of which are depthless in themselves. When stimulants are stripped from you, and your body is bare from all the basic spurs of nostalgia, it is taken upon yourself to drive these feelings into you, to permanently conquer triggers and plugs, and sever all the cords that restrict you from remembering untethered and continually in a spiral.