My old fishtank is in the hallway, looking for a new home I remember Blueberry, and how I let him die. AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM AUM  A sound to kill the thinking, to let the brain just be.

“Here comes a lost soul!” a man shouts at me as I walk home from work.  “Sup” I say. “Keep your head up.” He says and goes back to his conversation with the other man standing at the street corner. I don’t usually think of myself as a lost soul. I think it’s a lost world. I think if the world was right, there would be nothing wrong with any of us. 

They’ve made prison camps. They’re shaving people's heads and keeping them under LED lights, so that they lose touch with the sun.  They watch them night and day, piled up, shoulder to shoulder.