I exist in shades of black and white.
The clock is dripping and
time, what is... where'd it go?
I'm running away from it,
but I am so mutely slow.

There is mud in the tree house.

I'm tired. I don't stop
this slow motion slide show.
Tidal wave of lethargy.
I'm filled with uppers and downers
and antidepressants. Just fillers.
One does not float at the bottom of the sea.

There is something in the tree house.

Reality is relative.
Delirium is the easy way out.
Cotton candy spots the scene.
Purple puddles hide the fiend.
The clock is a gelatinous
blob of melted metal.

Don't go in the tree house.
Don't go in the tree house.
Don't go-