train of thought, first thing that comes to mind.

the Square route to a butterflies wing.

I am alone, and I am never going home.
all my thoughts will revolve and circulate quickly.
like merry go rounds. like children on the horses,
smiling real big, real wide because its their birthday parties and they are happy and they are in love with the girl three horses in front of them.
they smile.
and they shriek alot.
because we express all uncontrollable emotional thought with monosyllabic grunts and twitches.
'
look at him, shaking his knees like that, like an older man pissing for the first time in a long time and holding the handles of the handicapped bathroom with his left hand clenched tight as tho he were a a young man. hanging on for dear life, hunched over a urinal taking good care not to get any drips on his clothes.

all my thoughts will circulate just like that, eternally, helixically, continuing to invent new words atop each other to form a strand of artificial DNA too abstract to perceive. you could craft a glove to maybe mutilate it, move it about and mesh its shape to your desires, but that would take too much work. too much money and if its not abstract enough, too much love, i guess, who would know? not i, not i says that man in the corner, reaching for a cigarette, pulling me outside and away, wasting my dollars on lusts that will kill me. i am not a pleasant thing to be, i am not a pleasant thing to see, what kind of a creature would make me or love me? i am not a good thing to be.
live in the balances, experience omnipotence, we cant fathom or conceive it, there is no conception, beautiful conception of two things becoming eternity. but i have no half. no, i am not a half, i am a quarter or less, and i need that piece, i am i shard of a mirror and i need my mirror so that someone might look at this thin mess of love and blood and cigarettes and say, this is pleasing to see, i see not them but me. but that never happens because i am a shard of glass and when people look at me they see a shard of glass. waiting to cut someone, not reflect their beauty or love or hate or zeal for life, or cures or crimes. mess of a man am i, tying like a secretary at a meeting, taking down each note mentally, like this is important. it might be but who knows.
wolves die when they loose track of their pack .
so than shall i.