So Clean My Teeth Hurt

The joyride of sobriety flails, at times, through an unsightly bender of curves, blindingly spiral and tight, clamped down on your neck like the hands of over-achievers and paranoids everywhere, all the while hurtling out epithets, occupant's eye lids glued back to eye brows, frozen in place against the horror of oncoming deluge of sanity, oh wicked forced sanity, persistently lucid and mockingly straight forward. How I pine for the bliss of oblivion. How I stutter under the weight of my intestinal matter. How trees kiss me with their budding vociferous stability. There's a message here, encrusted in brine, and it speaks itself in language I cannot hope to decipher, or abandon.