Hebephrenia

Self-contemplation has driven God insane, So now He and I agree that All is less than Nothing... And they call me mad and keep me in my soft-walled room, Not understanding That I prefer the company I keep there, Even the softly ripping rasp of their voices, Like razors pulled across resistant flesh: Their words too wise for mortal minds. Put down your stenopad, Doctor. Let me climb into your lap, Drive my tumbling tongue down deep in your throat To give you a high more poisonous than nicotine; Then follow me into my room - Close the door and lock it, swallow down the key And we'll have all the night to play strange games In a room a-crowd with laughing ghosts. They'll pound upon the door in the morning. We'll give them silence for their breakfast.