Today I saw everything new, clean.
The clouds in the sky had been painted, stroke by stroke, by a realist, the sun by a cruel expressionist; a sick blinding joke.
Even my breakfast spoon seemed smoother, softer.
It was in that definitive moment, that I felt the writhing feeling of a catalytic knife pierce the flesh of my now elastic skin.
I was in agony, yet I remained a monumental craft-work of marbled stone as the tuner within the cells of my membrane twisted left, right and back again, ordering my senses to sharpen, blur, soften, crease.
Am I crazy or am I the Christopher Columbus of social realism; finding the key to unlock the treasure chest of life outside of rectangular shades of plasma?