There's
something troubling me down in my throat. I already tried to pick it
up with my fingers down to my fist deep in my mouth but nothing but a
scream came out. I startled at first and then realized it must have
been so much frustration and pressure from everyday life getting out
o' my body to allow my mind to cool off and make my brains roast in
peace on my flaming skull powder. It's a weird sensation I thought
and then confessed to myself that the only reason that – let's say
– reflex needs to explode from the inside out from time to time is
that sometimes I can't allow myself to let go and feel free to think
and move and write the way the words come out nakedly with vocal
cords and harp dissonances shaped like a typhoon crashing on every
single surface of my apartment. Now it feels much better. Thanks to
the world for ignoring me once more.
* from HOWL by Allen Ginsberg (but of course!!)