Adult Bats Don't Weigh Much. They're Mainly

The Daftest Logic Brings Such Sweet Unrest.

Disassociating, Mindfulness, Transcendence-whatever The Label-it's A Sort Of Loophole In Our Contract With Reality, A Form Of Self-rescue.

Shaped A Little Like A Loaf Of French Country Bread, Our Brain Is A Crowded Chemistry Lab, Bustling With Nonstop Neural Conversations.

Symbolic Of Life, Hair Bolts From Our Head[s]. Like The Earth, It Can Be Harvested, But It Will Rise Again. We Can Change Its Color And Texture When The Mood Strikes Us, But In Time It Will Return To Its Original Form, Just As Nature Will In Time Turn Our Precisely Laid-out Cities Into A Weed-way.

As Fleeting Emotions Stalk It, A Face Can Leak Fear Or The Guilt Of A Forming Lie.