The Attic Must Be Haunted.

The carnal urges are a kick in the balls. Far flung from himself into another loving embrace, his desires leave him feeling like skin stretched over a rabid dog. Dubious, his thoughts wring like a towel suspended above steaming rocks in a sauna. A long forgotten bath. Movement over reeds under a dimlit bridge teeming with drunken parasites; proven to be kinship are the leases he has lost without right. As he lays dreaming amidst piers of surf covered in seafoam and pungent rot, a memory descends upon him like an abyssal spector. It was peanut butter. It was a ghoul, a wastrel, a vision, a loss, an apparition. It was something you could see through. The thing that left him feeling like he had grasped something gone, it was of these things. He gallops up to his feet from crouching and thinks that maybe there was another life flashing before his eyes. But he isn't dying. He isn't even sure he's mortal at this point. He falls back down again to lull across another second; latex stretched over a ragged frame. His bones are harbingers of reality tearing through a thin membrane. His flesh is afire with cross meaning, tossed amid branches of tantrums, trains stretching across an expanse leaving a man with nothing. His eyes dilate unto drops of sweat hanging off a brow that must be his own. So asunder and confusing, this existence, he tosses and turns again to try to shake this consciousness. No the chemicals won't let him rest. Or they may, but for a second. Because there's someone else in his mind trying to clean up the mess. It's not him. It will not be him. It can't be him. If it were him he'd have gotten it all together by now. He knows that the creaking boards making up the floor of the attic within his brain are stressed by obnoxious preoccupations that just won't stop pacing. They look at the clutter around them and know that everything around them is not to be cleaned. It is to be arranged in some haphazard manner, a manner quite akin to the rantings of a postman just finishing his thirtieth round. And so a kick to the balls, a drip of the fall, a love like a ball that just keeps rolling. On and on across a landscape he can't make out.