Mass Our Encounter

The way the steam is coming up from the sewers in the middle of this night reminds me of the rise and fall of not only breaths but chaoticness within me. The same sewer drain fog would be a beautiful mask for such things, but tonight the stars shine like a spotlight on the car crash within my vascular muscle. I can't breath, but the sewer acts like this entire other organism, breathing from the ground up and I want to hear what it has to say, does it have things to tell me, things I already know, will my skin absorb the fog and hit me with a realization... I'm putting to much into the fog and all of my attention has swayed away to the very sewer that might house all of my broken ideas and thoughts and creations. This sewer seems like another part of me, a tunnel to the pieces that people are looking for but I never give. Hide me in the fog, follow me down the drain, let me give you the little things, follow me up, let the fog mass our encounter. Scared? Don't be. Me? Totally. But its okay.. This will be okay, that's what they tell me. And the boys and girls, fixing the sewer, they know about me. They know, they know. Produce me some fog and hide me in the stars with the moon as my target, and let the fog mask the things I'm already masking.