I feel it all about me, waiting for the right moment to pounce on my brain, dragging thoughts and ideas through tunnels of pain. Dragging, they become unrecognizable. Now disfigured, they drape over dead, dying and decaying brain cells. With no time to heal, another round of cerebral damage quickly shovels the wig salad to the side of my own information back road, like slush in an urban winter hiding potholes deep enough to swallow life and air out of tire and rim in an unsuspecting instant.
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