That cycle

(To be read free-flowing)

A cycle in your behaviour as routine as the washing machine but with less point or meaning.

Blocked nose, sore head, questioning why you never went to bed, eyes red, self inflicted symptoms, whilst pursuing drunken pointless wisdom.

To then start at the beginning again, and repeat over and over and over and over until the end, or what you thought was and then get chirpsed by a friend.

Existential dread logic. I'm not dead yet but I'm making it my hobby. All numbers past 27 are an achievement, I've been secretly staging my bereavement for some time, I've not yet managed to sniff enough lines.

I've seen the end through DMT and what flashed before me was an eternity of questioning my sanity and drinking beers and doing gear and wondering why the fuck I have been placed here.

I'm made of atoms from another planet, sitting next to  'space Janet' from another dimension who has my complete attention.

Gazing at a million stars, watching their ebb and flow, making me feel whole, a part of a galaxy surrounding me. Instead I'm here in a room desperate to disappear but yet this cycle will start again. It's not quite the end.