Staggering past 63 is it that astonishing I’m still double-taking at the shit inside my head?
And frequently I’m blind-sided by quotidian happenstance of breathtaking mundanity though everything’s been said?
When worlds drowned inside raindrops streaming down a windowpane conspire to leave me breathless with awe conjoined to dread?
While occasionally my prejudices suddenly get ambushed by glimpses of osmotic spasms flowing once I am dead
So the dreams that filled the universe behind my flicking eyeballs will then inform the dreams of worms my body will have fed,
Meaning they and generations of subsequent ingesters will consequently get to share the shit inside my head?
Although, by then, the me I deem I’m teasing from the maelstrom will be the faintest echo in the shit inside their heads?
Wait 63 times 63 times 63 aeons from now and there will still be traces of the shit in inside my head.