You know how nomads and other peoples can walk over hot coals? Partly it's that the coals aren't that hot, but it's also a mind-trick, telling yourself there's nothing when there actually is.

I come around sometimes and realize what an incredible fool I am. Some people are just slightly off-whack. I get full on delusions of grandeur. Snapping out of a dream isn't all that pleasant. Maybe I've said it before, but I hadn't bothered considering that I might be mentally ill. I really think I am. I have to be.

I felt odd mainly because I wasn't sure why I hadn't been feeling anything lately. I've been callous and sarcastic to people who I know will put up with it, yet helpful with others in terms of insight or just a kind word.

What I've felt in doing any of these things? Absolutely nothing. It feels like routine, just something that I would do or people would expect. I open my mouth or fingers and the words just come. I rent out truth and reason like two-bit whores for pit-stop catharsis. Those things ain't real, either; never had them in the first place.

How true or false the words are or how I feel about these people is another issue. Inside of me there isn't any emotional reaction, response, anything. There isn't even the real notion this is wrong, just overdone and already done.

So now there's the sun staring straight down at me. It's big, it's yellow, kinda hurts. I stand up and I'm in the middle of some desert. A pair of bikers race along the two-lane road, going 90 mph, hooting as they pass by. I've got dirt all over myself and there's that weird, sortof sick nauseous feeling from not eating.

What the hell was I thinking? I was giving up everything for an empty ideal. In the end I'm looking and yeah, I am transparent. I'm a hollow shell that receives whatever it gets, processes it, and spits back out whatever you want to hear. Only I don't have clue one on how the hell to do that. I'm just a human, and a pretty damn normal one at that.

I'm stuck out here and I don't have a lift back to town. The heat's pretty bad. There'll be a lift sometime soon, someone else new or someone I know buming me back to the big city to waste my money in filthy after-hours bars or some alleyway.

So take me back to the land of dreams, you beautiful fuck. I'll thank you and play back all the sweet nothings I recorded while you talked in your sleep. You won't even hear the feedback because of the nostalgia filtering it all. Just step on the damn gas. This place is dry and I need a drink.

On second thought, just leave me out here. I think my ego needs to bake for awhile and lose a few pounds.

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