I'm off to drift into waters

Where nothing makes sense,

While still feeling so familiar.

There is a terror—

Or sometimes a comfort,

When the world is not your own

But made for you, by you,

And the only way to get there

Is to doze and fade and

Give in to the demands of

The burnt-out self that longs

For escape—

I just don't know

If I'll end up gleefully splashing

In a pond or flailing in a

Terrible ocean.