Bio-logic.

Sometimes when I am under the pins and tragic needles of some psychotomimetic entity I forget my tenure. The tenure, that is, that comes with occupying space, being part of the cosmos is just as easily forgotten when the sea inside rises like a malady; the all-encompassing importance of being, the proud tone one takes when announcing that magnificent proprietary pronoun dulls and withers like a somber smile. Waves pour and drag my consciousness away and on rainy nights I feel as if I was bold enough to look at the measureless void of space that I too would become translucent stars floating beneath my feet. I carve my grave with hands of gossamer and stretch my fingers into infinity, then I remember that I was and am being, and how little that really means, everything merges with the night and for a few brief moments there is respite. I no longer feel the frenzied plea of my atoms, the particles are no longer particular, and then I feel my hand waking, a sore mechanism in place to remind me that I am still here and for all intents and purposes the relative conclusion is that it is still happening and, once again, how little that really means. Tenure is a loveless phantom that raps and beats at the doors of perception, I turn away from it from time to time to look at the sea of matter that lays beside and within me.