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I dreamt of smells; gasoline and skunk, as stressful drops surfaced the humid summer night. Heart palpitations, neurotransmitters firing utter excitement. This was out of an action movie, just lacking a brutal fight. Although, a fight with oneself was the premise, a persisting and reappearing phenomenon catalyzing spontaneous creativity while conscious. It was an obsession after the eyes opened, a narrow symptom of the Asperger’s diagnosis. Surreal to modernity yet flaunting obscure beauty. Don’t know why or how it came to be; he was screaming, gargling wails for help, sunken-in; it wasn’t quicksand, but green slime. Lonesome except for the presence of trees and an abyss of a sky. He felt more pressure than anything else. No one could save him. And still, by the break of day, no one could pull him out. There was no use.


Image of The other side


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