barometric brain

the weather shifts pressing the air me; pressuring me. i don’t know why i get to feel the aura of the sky, nor do i know what to do with it. perhaps there’s some beauty in this gift that i’m missing entirely. but when i lay down, i am the earth a giant foot steps upon; i am the speakers dead voices flood their way through; i am the eyeballs the vultures of the underworld come to peck out. typing is arduous, yet i need to do something. i cannot control a pen and would rip through paper with my lethargic coordination. even reading is more torturous than sound. tomorrow will break with rain, but i will be dazing through. i had plans for the evening, but the sky cares not for my plans. (i just hope i can tolerate a working day...) perhaps i shall die tonight, squashed in my inability to sleep. though i doubt it. that would be just too easy, and i never do anything the easy way.