My hands are the repetitions, which are less impactful each time. Discarded philosophy, burns down the throat, like the swelling of monsoon. Last night’s rain smelled of a wistful animosity. Deranged wishes, have a bee like pattern, the yellow dots, that stretches in a wish to catch all the black. Tiny dots that camouflage into something large. Constant buzzing, a warning sign of a sting so hard, that transcend time into a loop. A lost touch