Cherry Flavor

I spent my whole life trying to keep the charm of superstition out only to discover wet footprints leading to my room. It just takes one coincidence within the the lunar cycle to make me unwell. I am sick with destiny. Why are unfamiliar faces meeting my eyes with a look that suggests I am on the right path? Things are ordinary. That is the way life presents itself to automatons being conveyed by people movers. I don't want the needle. Remove it from my hands. Countless years have been wasted on trying to bleed magic out of tedium. Reality does not obey me. Circumstances are alterable within the margins, and are not the empty pages of a master author. Let me find my way back to the hoards of stripped of teleology. My face is covered in bruises from slamming it against the barrier which separates shamans from mail carriers. Nothing is going to answer back. A feeling is all that can console such idol believers. Swirling dishwater is such a beautiful end to cleaning inexpensive reusables. Glittering bubbles that chase the soaked residue of dinner is no different that a secret ambition that washes over hard breaks and long stretches of menial tasks. Where is my revolving bookshelf? A glowing stone to put my hand on would be nice. Even a sigil etched upon my floor board allowing the divine to pour in light and mission has a certain romance to it. Give me a chance encounter with creatures of lore never meant to be seen by impure hearts. Instead I am feed a diet of these same plastered walls. It is the same street signs, same pigeons, same houses, same local business smells, and same cast of bundled up commuters desperately trying to avoid the person closest to them. Exorcise me of this hope. Put a burning match to the tick of grandeur that has bitten my arm. It engorges itself on the blood of daydreamers. I only want to entertain things that confirm my significance as a consumer. Tell the shooting stars to be gone. Shew away any monarch butterfly lest I think it is a messenger of some imaginary beginning. If I am to sleep on this bed of nails, I can not allow my flesh the tenderness of a fanciful narrator. Speak only evil into my ears. Remind me of rejection letters, unrequited effort, and statistical assurances of a miserable demise.