Wound tight and stomach knotted
Endless thoughts, head is reeling
Darker schemes are being plotted
No single road seems appealing
A roundabout, eyes are blurring
Sleep offers no more respite
Each waking moment reoccuring
A falling dream from a great height
A catch-22, a spinning top
Dante’s rings, ever decreasing
A perpetuum mobile, never stop
Piled on top and never ceasing
8th August 2021 – I stuck this poem into an AI story generator and it came back with this:
A cloud of gas, an oil well, and then one day, well no, I’m not going to say it again I can’
I can’t wait to share some music with you guys. I’m still working on it, – the best soundtrack I’ve ever heard. That’s it, folks, that’s the end of this sentence, no? Okay, here’s a short one: I think I might have died. Maybe. When I did, my body was on . … I guess that is a word. – no. Okay. You know what? That is it for this one; I’ll give you a minute. Sorry. How many minutes, anyway? I don’t know, maybe two. What was the last song that you listened to ?
… You might notice that in all this time no one has been to my room. No one’s been in my bed. So far, the only person I have had to talk to is you. Sorry, sorry, this is going a bit fast, okay?