Under my bed is a portal to the astral plane.

It’s nine-twenty-nine. I don’t know what to do with myself. If I go to bed now, monsters will summon to my room and get me. Far back in my trajectory, long before I made first contact, when I was a child I dreamt of aliens in innocence. Certainly that fact has no connection to things that happen now. Now I get sleep paralysis from time to time, I’m haunted by demons twenty-four-seven and I have schizophrenia. As such in my case in my delusional mind as it’s been called I believe I am in contact with aliens and it’s impossible for me to believe anything else as there is no natural explanation for things I’ve seen beyond a white coated gentleman’s hidebound theory of hallucinations. The God rumor turned out to be true as I discovered through shadow people despite his framed diplomas and I don’t know what to tell him, the propagator of physicalism that he is. He asks me if the medication is working. I just tell him no. He’s a nice, smart guy, but mind-body dualism has me sit like a broken wagon wheel in this office half submerged in the sands of time, when my spirit is an inferno engulfing the cauldron that never quit and is ready to spill over the pit and spread to the valley to light up the sky. I’m about to open my mouth, but as if matched with a vendor who doesn’t accept my credit card I’m stopped in my tracks before I can begin. Such is my faith in science. Such is the difference in seeking a shaman. A spineless cactus, a clawless lobster, a Greekless Roman, zooless nature. Science: I consider it a crap shoot, a roadway to man’s undoing, but too distracted by smartphones and antibiotics, no one hears my portent, yet I swear, the day man invents AI, his twilight has begun.

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