Sometimes I feel so detached from my body that I have to wonder. And yet I am certainly grounded in its electrical impulses. My hands feel like my face. My hands feel my face. And is it smiling? It's in on the joke; me against them. My lips covet my fingers, sucking them dry, and my brain watches on through tunnel vision, optic nerves boring through the rocky mountain skull. That brain listens in on them through tunneling sound-bearing tracks of the petrous portion. That brain. Is it mine? Do I live in my suckled fingertips?
My feet feel like my gut, and their visceral reaction to themselves as viscera is the same, toenails scratching all manner of deliciousness. Chyme and bile begin their descent, but the vestibule is the only thing simulating an up, down mentality. This particular state of mind is a republic with locked borders.
It's a funny trick these guys play on me.
