My synthetic sky feels so prickly to this subjective anesthesia of nervous circuitry. Thinning into a transmission is not my idea of luxury, though the exclusions of more-than-human humble me past bumbling. Like how there are more foreign microbes in my gut than stars in our galaxy, composing and decomposing me at an unconscious metabolic rate. Somehow I cope with my face, flip a switch downside-out and upside-in until time contradicts the irrational irascibility of sister frequencies like invisible hands pulling me under an exoplanet’s choppy surface. Slippery frictions of astonishment never cease to unsettle me, my vacuum-packed heart the absence of self-in-body, numbers of wonder written in bold on the face of insanity’s mirror image truth. So here I am, dead again, which changes nothing, since the sonic opposite of my name is organic silence. Sun dolloped compressions of polychromatic incandescence have me showing up with my psychoanalyst in tow. I mean, space is deep, even if it is only a mental residue of the Big Bang.