Delirium Ontology Rejects Reductionism
White-washed ceilings turn to sky
January in July
Does this mean I’m going to die?
Whoa-oh

No one’s with me anymore
A technicolor spirit corps
Of empty, former cynosures
Whoa-oh

So have I closed my eyes?
Or have I opened them tonight?
Am I listening? Is what I hear
Right here to hear?
Have I lost myself in colored, rising lines
As the echoes fade and memories die?

Crisp Chablis and sun on seas
German streets where none should be
A novel neural frozen scene?
Whoa-oh
I won’t speak my given name
Won’t and can’t become the same
Works and days compress to frames
Whoa-oh

So should I close my eyes?
Or should I open them tonight?
Am I listening? Is what I hear
Right here to hear?
And is all I am this set of fading lines?
As the echoes fade and memories die?
Whoa-oh