Ode to Trypophobia

The edge of a hole is a dreadful angle.

Consider the time edge of falling asleep, the precipice of mind death. Consider sleep’s recurrence! The holes of waking and sleeping have a texture. Human life encased in a shell of naturally  clustered holes risks everything. Leaves the waking hours erratic, thin, accidental.

Such a cratered existence must. E psyched. Not just its surface but filled. All the way down to the bottom but first cauterized. We must 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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