self-caffeinated free association

I know I shouldn't, but I do. The mantra thuds in the background as the anthem rings out true: maybe this time it's different.
Yes. It is a question of earned reticence. Yes. It's a question of lessons learned. But life is hope, Highness.
So I wrap myself in cables that imitate the weight of human tissue, cables that carry all our knowledge, a posteriori or otherwise. They can choke, I've seen them do it, and even a priori it's not hard to imagine. But as the Sexton once said, it is a sweet weight, this weight that presses my feet into the soil and roots me in the truth of possibility. Imagination is my gateway drug in the afternoon, and I sink from surface to soil to the soul's opium dream.
I don't sleep anymore; I float on a cloud of orange anticipation above my yellow notepad forever in the night. I produce my own caffeine, better than the dregs from a Japanese factory floor stained by adjacent dynasty and pantheistic tendencies forgotten.
This heart pitters and patters, but it sees enough to think clearly through the arrest. Or at least kaleidoscopically—
a new image emerges from the patchwork refractions and I see myself reflected
mewling in newness
in its arachnid eyes.