The misshapen patterns dot the wall of the outer rim and cover the expanse of my vison. They meld together and the world is now longer different pieces but one. One swirl of light and sound and directions. Nothing is everything and everything is something. The pattern no longer seems connected to life itself just an orb or a distant memory frolicking in my subconscious, adhering to the surface of my skull and becoming one with my skeletal system and I, too, am a pattern. Too many pieces, too seperated. I am not myself, I am a diluted pattern.
Me: So you're a virgin?
Person: Oh yes, I'm waiting for mar-
Me: Marco Bodt ha ha yeah me too