50 milligrams, to hone that which is not precise.
I am left twisted, reveling in my own strangeness.
It is a relief.
The desired effect was not that I leave society behind.
But, I am good at keeping secrets.
I claim this silence as mine.
You gift me digital parchments of your words.
I hum their rhythm, feel your typos etched like scars.
They jangle nerve endings and make me smile.
Ricochet, images sent next in concerted resolve.
You've taken the queen too early, any master knows.
In this patchwork of obvious realization I only find tedium.
All I need is a precipice and the ability to jump.
I run back to that which is really me.
I'll always be the exception to your spectre of normalcy.
You'll never know.
