You're tooling the upper echelon of the atmosphere displaying your candy feathers. Dancing about with sweet bits wrecked between your teeth like dreamy forcepts extracting pleasurable rapture, you don't know that the sugar fuels all that keeps you sentient. The sentience only goes so far. It's like a twig snagging the summer dress of the catatonic mental defect wandering the woods post-escape. It only presents itself as an unnoticed blip on the radar. As we all know, becoming aware of one's self is a treacherous journey down a one-way sluice chute lined with broken glass and sexual predations. The path ends with a throned monkey telling you all the lines are busy in a condescendingly dubious tone and the candyman grins in the corner blaring early hip hop incantations like some sort of half-gone teenager leaving traces of his sickness all over the tupperware bowl of your soul. Grease fat drips all over your precious Ipod from the headlights in the ceiling and your ultimate playlist is scrambled into darkness split with lightning in the night. That hand you call your conscience drops like a rabbit raced hard against foaming dogs and high fructose corn syrups runs into the IV keeping you alive. Until you are comfortable with yourself you will be kept alive with superior treatments. You'll swerve lazily across the ominous sky; blimplike, suntanned, peeling, and burning. Only until you are comfortable with yourself will the honey bee stop droning over your head stinging the very air you breathe. Beware though. Those who come down don't feel much better with themselves. The conscience will still be there.
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