Ode to Trypophobia

The edge of a hole is a dreadful angle.

Take the time edge of night, the precipice of mind death. Definitely a circle. The recurring holes of waking and sleeping have a dripping crawling texture on the inside of my skull. Human life encased in a shell of naturally  clustered holes risks everything. For what? Makes the matter in between the holes erratic, thin, grotesquely accidental.

How to patch up such a cratered existence; not just its surface but deeper. All the way down to the bottom. Cauterize it. How to engineer the worming tunnels to clean and disinfect ….. If the matter would all stay fixed and malleable that’s all I can fit but a nothing starts with an edge I cannot accept.

Bottomless circles have a way of swallowing up order.

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