That kick in the head. Over and over again, that kick in the head. Skull hitting nod, relentlessly. In a state where silentwave is language. Again and again, as blood shots white eyes. As if helicopter. The smell of something warm. Tasting metal. Thoughts like cursive in Japanese calligraphy unraveling like memories in spirals of tandem propel. Trembling Live. Almost to be mistaken as cold. Or soft. Now a sponge for a head. Still intact. Just a feeling like the foot smacking a skull as though padded in socks on socks in colors of socks and rainbows of colors fragmenting light one may never explain in a lucid state: this is it.
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