do they really dream?

the comforts of life seem uneasy, and the time comes when i'm suffocating so loudly. the thrashing never stops, the dream always dies.
so what's left?
an ambiguous thought that screams and cries and peels back the layers of what's really happening. see it for what it is, but don't understand it.
so what's happening?
it's happening, over and over and over and over again. a reeling brain, waiting ever so impatiently for the fish hook to sink in and take it away. take the bait. set the bait. refresh the excess.
so what's else is there?
there is nothing else, in the re-run sitcom that hits the air every day. it's watched, it's critiqued. it's really not that something else we're dying for. regurgitated, reanimated, and chopped into pieces to be packaged and sold.
don't disregard me.
fuck you.
the twat. the cunt. the bitch.
i'm the liar. i only lie to myself.
but i guess i'm just happier that way.
a calloused shell of what is human. and suffers from the human condition.
nothing's ever okay.
but it's always fine.