Still Charmed and Kicking (season 8)

You have to start them small and slow. Build up your momentum then let them go. Awry. This way and that. Reeling you out of your fantasy and dreamlike trance. Back onto the dirty carpet, with it rubbing the palms of your hands. Begging you not to think this time. Down on your knees trapped in sublime. Til you're gasping for air. And flopping around on the floor. You have to start them determined and quiet. Concentrated and then you release. Watching as the patterns intersect like a sick kaleidoscope of indignity. That fracture your eyelids, while prying them open. Poisoning them then laying them out to dry. And then you're back to the floor and the humiliation there. And your clothes are torn from the misguided wear. But your nerves kick into high gear. And you read it upside down and inside out. Trying to make sense of all this doubt. But laying lifeless on the floor is so much easier. Wet hands and a straw are a mouths best friends. The cool night air seems much simplier. So the window is open but not your heart. You have to start these cold and weightless. Like the flutters of maybe thoughts. And when they emerge you see them as far as they can be taken. And when they're gone you lay there shaking. Shredding the pillows and burning the sheets. Because the floor is for them-not for your sleep. They'll tear out your tongue if you're trying to eat. I couldn't run so no use for feet. You have to start these on a breath. Because when you exhale maddening is left. Turns down the corners of your lips. You're afraid you're too close to it. You back up and you're wilting. A fine line divides your sanity. A fine crime against humanity.