e = m

You sir are making no sense. 

Does it matter really? Does it matter if I make sense to the people around me? The world doesn’t make any sense to me most of the time, why should I make an effort? I’m just returning the favour. If this is how it makes sense to me, then let me be. 

I like it when the sun seems to be melting, when the voices of people seem far away, when they look like ragdolls with heads too large for their bodies and eyes like coal, when the poppies in bloom look like a blur across the horizon, just as if someone had slashed the earth open and it were bleeding bleeding bleeding. I like to hear the music in my ears, my music, the one that I can understand, the one that sounds like voices blending into a cacophonous mess, like a thousand organs playing just out of sync with one another, like the sound of stars singing to themselves on the night of the midsummer equinox. I like it this way, don’t you know. 

I like it when the world makes sense.