Sprawled out, with a book in hand, coffee at my side I rest somewhat graciously among pillows and blankets across from an alarming portrait of Uncle Sam pointing his rigid finger. I assume he's undressing me with his sharp condescending eyes, waiting for me to finish reading so that he can walk off for his Preparation H. I seem a bit disheveled, brandishing a navy-gray shirt littered with coffee stains and wreaking of body odor that resembles the smell of a bag of skunk. The only thing that's seemed to change on my body in the last day is a pair of pajama pants displaying pink pigs that was rescued off the floor in the morning. I'm under the impression that I may be wearing boxers but can't be arsed to check.

I have my hair tucked behind my large, seemingly obnoxious, headphones. Ambient progressive gobbly-goop seems to be playing but at the moment I'm more dissolved into the pages. The iced coffee rests it's grainy texture in the back of my throat and tongue, the cigarette stays lit as I hassle line by line and my legs simply dangle off the edge of the mattress over a pile of clutter.

In my dormant eye a man in a midnight-black shimmering cloak hands Jefferson the Seal, an eye in a pyramid(pg 101, memo #10). I feel as though I've fallen into another salvia trip. The hairs on my body tingle back and forth as if they are a conductive material, back and forth. In light of this sensation I try to manipulate and prolong this intoxicating impression.

"Harp sickle will warn me when it's over
'Cuz if heaven breathes
then someone trade places with me
'Cuz I don’t want to tear feathers instead of rags "

My spacial awareness changes, I feel as though my dimensional senses have shifted and now I am a speck in the cosmos that has become my room. The room has become a galaxy and I am a lowly star experiencing what seems to be the results of some spiked coffee. My vision blurs for a moment and my mind projects constellations on the walls. I am only able to recognize one, the rest seem foreign to me. My awareness shifts yet again from the stars to the throb at the center of my forehead. This undue pressure feels less like something is trying to get out, and more like one is breaking in. The pain grows sharp then subsides.

I light a cigarette slowly, back resting against the wall, partially in awe but mostly feeling as though I had just been violated by Uncle Sam and his accusatory finger. I return my efforts towards that tingle, attempting to recapture the sensation. I lose focus and instead concentrate on not dribbling ashes on pig-pants.