Trees have lost their dreams and my feet feel like potatoes, confined in a rubber womb. I can smell my eyes but I can't see them or other stuff & also, I'm very lost in very real terms. I realize tongues are a funny meat extension, being the perfect shape of store bought popsicles, the ones that come in a pack of dozen for $4.99+tax, is that irony? So I'm in a forest, in a night & the snow blizzard is having it's annual darts clearance sale on my face, is that a good deal? I sense a yellow stoplight is like a point of no return for some who don't like the lemony disinfectant taste of I.C.U coma in mouths or official photographs but I don't need to worry about that, I'm in a forest, just worries of the many twinsy yellow lights grunting, grinding teeth with my barely active lump crunches/ no/ they're only feet previously. I feel the need to write my autobiography, w/ tenace, but it's been rejected by many mega sage gurus, addicted to chips w/ extra vinegar. I'm probably going to die here. That was the title in short, in print, if ever. Also I've never been more proud & relevantly accurate before. I wonder if irony buys time or hot pockets or more breaths & also I'm cement.