Why can’t I countenance, appendage my traumie like oldstyle?

Why do I remain why do I remain a worthless functionary, drawn into the colossal gig, the bone economy—?

Why can’t I believe instead of what I belief to believe?

Why can’t I squirt it out through a pair of engine eyes?

Why am I so blocked up?

Why does this living tomb of a basement room appear wide, plushy and comfortable in comparison to the tomb of my body and mind?