Psychobabble.

The reverb hits you when you least expect it. Only a faint chorus now. Innuendo. No, diminuendo. No, both. You pick yourself up to jog through the abominations when something hits you again. A dewdrop. Rosebud, even. You continue still. Not waiting for the realization to come.
But it did come.
And now you're swept aside. Falling through infinity into a microcosm of black and blue, wishing it were all the while magenta. Not a deep magenta, more of a light pinkish tinged magenta. The one you saw on that girl's face when you saw her kissing the wolf in sheep's clothing.
And now you're back. Back in black. Back in the back. Back watching your back while someone slaps you in the face. You turn to see a mirror. You strike and it strikes you back. You fall. And now you're falling. Falling through infinity into a macrocosm of white and grey, hoping that it were all the while yellow. Not a dour dark yellow, more of a light, pleasing coldplay yellow. A mellow yellow. Without a jaundiced eye.
And you're out. You're out of the dreamscape. And yet you're in another. Reality bites. Love bites. Everything bites. It's a jungle out there. You want to go back in. You can't. Door's shut. You try and touch it, but you lose perception. And now you lose sight, and travel into yourself, all the while remaining out. You feel your spleen going red with gangrene and now turning a sickening blue before you throw yourself out. Now you're drowning in a pool of your own spit. Your own saliva. And now you're in. You're inside the walls. But you feel the fresh air smacking your spit-drenched face. Comforting your skin. Something's amiss. Just then, a hand grabs at your neck and twists it and breaks it in half. And then you go back in. In to a mesh of pain and suffering and black. You like black. You love black.
And then you're back. In grey. In white. Up high. Under the sky.
And people you barely know see you in your helpless naked form and it's okay. You don't give a fuck, all the while thinking the pain will go away. And now you hear a beat and groove to it. Or try to. Only for it to stop prematurely. As the liberation is washed away by the heat, your mind decides to take a leak. You leak. And it all comes back. You fall out. Fall from infinity into another black hole sun. Only this one's not so black. And then the spirits kick in. And prickle you to a state of shrivelled epilepsy. Robbing you of your pseudo-insomniac nights and erasing the 'pseudo', and all the while you fail to calculate the pseudo-statistics in your mind.
You wake up. It's gone. But the sun's back in. And no amount of singing is washing it away. A moment of hysteria gives way to a deluge of irritation, annoyance ... pain.
And your skin bubbles over. And all the while you're hoping for a black hole sun. No, just a black hole.
And then the cyanide sweeps in and rick-rolls you into a tube of hate, and you come out like noodles of dyspepsia. And you drift in and drift out. In. Out. In. Out. The cycle never stops since the chicken and the egg came together. As one.
One whole. One composite structure. In. Out. In. Out.
The cycle stops. You are in-between in and out. Literally, in between. And then a master of puppets consumes your mind, and you pull and you pull. It comes quickly. You control. Wait for it to seep back in, to come out stronger, more potent. Then with a last tug of insatiated andromedal force, you pull. And pull. And pull. Oblivious of future peril. Future penalties. You pull. And you pull. And then it comes. All at once. The wah is over. The wait is over. Your body is filled from top, well 'top', to toe. You feel weak and tired. All that pulling. You feel whole as the schisms come. You look down and admire the handiwork. And then look up for a sign from above. And then guano drops on your face.
To wake you up once again. This time there aren't any mirrors. No falling into colors through quantum leaps of faith. You lie alone. In black. In white. Not in grey. And you realise this is what you wanted. This is what it has all been about. You don't want to leave. And then just as you think this thought, you're falling through infinity again. But not into a microcosm, not into a macrocosm, and not even into a black hole sun. You attain nirvana. You're in bloom. And you apologize to Alan Parsons.