Fragments of who I could be and everything I am not are seething through the moist skin on my brain.
I am everything and I am nothing.
I am not God. I am delusional.
I am not suffering from delusions of grandeur, merely, realisations of emptiness.
I feel so exposed underneath the light fixture.
Somehow I feel more familiar in the darkness.
My head is in the clouds, although these days there's no more room for it down on earth.
A tin can full of contents with no device to open it.
This is who I am.
This is who I am not.
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