Teetering on the threshold of eternity, me and the shape-shifting shaman communicate through ESP.

He can read my mind, he knows everything about me.
The tarot fool ascends the incline with a new found God given crutch,
a communion so unconditional, better than a lobotomy.
Why is astral projection the only thing that seems to work for me?

Time to recover

and claim

the final reward

for wrestling with

the underworld.


But even so, the broken record of incessant silent tears will not vanish until the heart stops beating. There is still a pulse.

There is no bliss.

The Wounded Healer

Map Of Me