BUG day at Missy Grizell's house (GLOOM chic)

Through the sands of the hour glass, so are the days of my 9 lives: morally & physically bankrupt made observation of a greater world impossible & a lesser world-- my mind--obviating itself. Out at this goth-chic's house in the country, I realized I looked at everything as an opportunity--just thought it thus, hoped it so... Like her proffering a joint, made the leaden mixed up mind of me see the tent poles consciousness dismount even before the drug reached my cortex. This is the sand metaphor. What little I could adduce from stirred-up consciousness was the milting sands making a hole behind the hardened exterior of my yeahs, like inventing the means to relate to her was inviting me, the star of some grand parade to an after-dinner show--but it was me who was being consumed. I knew it was yet another life of mine being discarded, because I ceased hearing her, seeing out the window into the farm rain-dampened hay fields, & demurred from the smile-fest that ensued. I couldn't even well up w/ the intensity that senses were failing & felling me as I wondered at the lack of adjustment I sought in my new predicament ...just begging for an awareness of the sense of a corrupt higher-self, who was gone already w/ the pretext of a sedentary world now at-large (and as gone), leaving me at that point, I was desperately patient.