Fetid Underwear and Red-hatted Mad-hatters

Having to read the words others wrote is helpful in understanding the words I have floating around in my own head.

Taking the time to listen and hear my own terror echoing in the typos and grammatical mistakes of existence as a human being.

Words that mean I am not alone in this puke-my-guts-up sort of languishing luxury of privileged political primeval upheaval.

The sort of vibe that leaves the mouth tacky and sticky with the taste of fear, bitter and acrid burnt feelings, rinds and all. 

Smoked out of crevasses and crooks, effervescent with the scent of anxiety, we are having just a lovely fucking time.

Which is it, I scream as I push protesters out of doorways and wave my fingers in the face of the seven sins of eating.

Which is it, I shout as I leave the front door open and the key in the lock as I run down the alley, my throat already swollen shut.

Which is it?

Can we live and accept that the above ground pool has a leak and as long as one of us is constantly pissing back into the chlorinated greasy water we will stay afloat?

Or should we just dive deeper and let the waves of fetid underwear and red hatted mad hatters tear us apart and feed us to capitalism?

Which is it?

I must keep reading and writing to find out.