I have a block on my brain and a clock in my mouth and I'm tasting each second. For days I've swallowed the hours. Striking worth into the air with words like arrows that were stuck into my knees; To pin me to the chair, to force me to write, I've got a pencil and a thousand thoughts but my wrists won't move. Why are my thoughts the flies on a rot aloft each other in persuasive decay? Their decay is my demise. I control this square with just enough space to envelop an affliction. They are all dead to me. They are all DEAD. Oh no, it's a comfortable rape! Unlike any normal respite, this canon-style boredom is a crippling image. Ready to pop at any moment, red-faced children can't vomit. Insignificantly hopeful, they are pulling on these coiled limbs; they are taught and confined. In this environment I am my own destruction. Relying so heavily on every possible sketch procrastination lost cause knowing nothing...