You are aware of the warped colours
in my brain, they are mostly crimson
and bullion cubes dull in my skillet skull,
sautéed with noodles.
Each delegate a part of my life:
Do they know? Who are they anyway?
I don't think they do.
How can you prescribe, explain the reds
without popping them?
How can I get it across, while
lying on this burdened couch?
I can't talk to you herhemeandyou.
Did I say that already? OK, OK, let's get it
I don't want your help. I want my own.
Too much, too much!
I see drips, do you?
Of course you don't, you've
Got a PhD, your fiddle-de-dee
Some kind of degree.
A special document awarding
a kind of extraordinary vision.
Is that better, one or two?
Go away, I don't need your help
As a matter of fact, you
make me a bit blinder.
I'll outline it somehow.
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