Was there ever such a perfect time? I am in waste and I hang for it Don't let me drift from my task I could veer and spill onto my side This is my sickness Sometimes I talk to my own excrement Or size myself up in a mirror I lie down on a surface intended for walking upon And I gorge myself on molecules This is my sickness Don't come close to me; you don't need To see the pieces that begrime me In time I will transfer them onto you But, for now, be patient; stay there This is my sickness I will line up and coat with dust Every half-thought and every action Until all content has been obscured My finger died in the woods; its use went This is my sickness