The Error of Extrusion

Soon I will drop myself as a habit. Drop the habit of myself like letting a glass fall from loosened fingers to the floor, liquid and all. Drop the careful architecture of focused blindness and the error of extrusion, of existing as though only I do. I will seep into the sidewalk as another of its cracks and know the crow's wing as my rudder. Sounds will be carried on my body through walls and sights will flash as the pounding now on mute as I gaze at the space in this everywhere.