As the snakes slither, this particular selection of snakes seem to smile in their best-practiced sinister manners. Small snakes, sick snakes, slither so softly through the carpets and up the bedsheets; said snakes then proceed to pass through tough, leathery skin, and into a consciousness of which they call their very own. Too resounding surreal the snakes smile. Smiling, such a simple task, most snakes aren't capable--Sir's snakes though, they sit smiling through slitted mouths and wild eyes. Snakes slither behind Sir's eyes, smoking an already unsound subconscious, sort of all of the time. Not-so-subconsciously, selfishly, almost wastefully indulging on these small snakes' venom is liable to make a person lose their marbles.
Someone shouts somewhere close by in Sir's soundless night-time shelter of solitude, someone sobbing from a great, great loss. No Sir, no Sir. Somewhere someone shouts at something seemingly evanescent in their escaping Sir's hopelessly affixed eardrums. Around what was this spirit's somewhat self writhing rant centered? Certainly, Sir also wondered why she was fading away from Sir's sense of compassion and circle of audible concern.
Hauntingly sober, Sir's imagination stops smiling. Sir's subconscious self shouts so loudly sometimes when gone unfed. I'm sorry. As the snakes slither, these small serpents strive to seek comfort; why then--when ones snakes say out loud seemingly under their own strengthening agenda and their own thoughts of sobering sadness--do other snakes smirk with a false sense of righteous condescension?
Who would be comfortable with such slithering, smouldering snakes smoking someones subconscious--Sir's subconscious--with mostly irrational and unreliable information? Why does Sir's subconscious lie about hoarding such small snakes in such a way that mirrors of years of tears and sadness consistently and constantly fill his eyes because of so many misunderstood, indiscernible social sensibilities?
Breathe in, breathe out, as snakes slither in their own cloudy, smokey madness. Will Sir ever understand such madness? Will Sir ever understand consciously that his world is only as it is because of himself? Sir's world is seemingly collapsing around in great piles of ashes--bridges consumed by Sir's small slithering serpents--bridges harboring the necessary pathways, only surrounded by an astonishing amount of metaphysical stones. Such stones sound out loud in the forms of addictions; such stones sound like broken hopes and aspirations, terrible deeds and broken promises. Some snakes slither through the stones and ashes, as Sir watches over what he has made of his own life.
