Go ahead. Demolish the careful architecture of your thoughts. Your gut doesn't care about your mental flying buttresses.
There is something really, really gratifying about breaking things.
I'll start:...Your turn.Like That Today, the child holding onto the mother's pant leg—stifled breathing as you see tired hands and hear the drone of the fan, jingle of change. (Don't look at me like that anymore.) (Look at me in the way I want you to look at me.) The story of humanity on tape deck—flip, click, repeat; easy to wash away your fears with fleeting fancies—nothing to hold onto, nothing to lose. The fear (unspeakable) wells in your chest, showing you quicksand but keeping you at arm's length. (Thanks for the coffee.) There are countless worlds in countless eyes—easier to handle with caffeine, self-stories, and umbrella words. You show me your wallet sometimes, and I understand. I like to think I'm good at dialectics, and there's something flattering and morbid about it all. (Take your dice roll—I'm not one to begrudge pleasure.) (There are too many "yous" for offense to be relevant anymore.) The times you close the drapes and pray for—dread—tomorrow (hypocrite), your doubts like high beams in concrete jungles, crude—merciless (I tell you). Scribbling with no coherency as you acknowledge your mortality and drown in the nuances of speech (when did everything become so fucking personal?). I'll put in a bulk order for sociopaths and pay in obligatory phrasing and reprimand, you fool. (I'm no one's and everyone's fool, and that's okay; it's most fun that way.) Don't forget the weight of hands on your shoulders, and brace yourself as you open your inbox. (Understanding is painful—it hurts around the sternum.) The pulse under my fingers is glorious and frightening, and I share it with you; it's more proper to let it not be said—odd, how propriety and avoidance coincide. We like for others to not understand, yet we crave to be understood—push-pull like the salt and the grit that laps at your feet in a dull roar (roaring the South Beach Diet and a consuming fear of loneliness). Kindred spirits in the mug shots—viscerally, you empathize, but it's not okay to sympathize for some reason. The personal affront comes in many colors—sixteen million when you say things like "hexadecimal," a whole shitfest of sound and meaning (of which we have tenuous control—that's why she cries all the time). (Laughter is, strangely enough, a cousin of the tears.) It's a good release to grit your teeth, let your eyes blur, and let yourself melt into the world (and the sheer insanity of INFORMATION). Smiles of vengeance and a desire to share the hurt of being (it's so much bigger that we can deal with without becoming douchebags in a desperate attempt to feel okay (and not feel small in the face of time)). The words of weight—abrasive, armed—are often underestimated and misused (misunderstood). I suppose, of that, something as silly as unintentional cruelty is born (we're all perpetrators and victims of that, regardless of consciousness, desire, pride). (Don't ask me to qualify who I am—don't make me write in subjective terms; look into my eyes and see for yourself.) I have no right to say these things, but I do—I'm just succumbing to base instinct, to hedonism, and to humanity.
Deconstruct your constructs. Have fun, or simply: just have.