At the flip of a Coin

i find myself restored to the SLC. Just another dirty little coin thrown back into the rusty slot of this old machine. As always, it clinks & clacks; rattles & barks. Seemingly, nothing has changed.
As i sit here in a tenement any 19 yr old would fashion their love for, having mourning coffee, staring out the window - the trees, bushes, vehicular mad things, roofs of buildings, all dusted w/ a late snow - i witness Reality quite effortlessly rive itself from my mind's construction, splitting & tearing into two, four, eight, sixteen pin-points of light dancing wickedly of their own accord, w/ no thought or reverence to my sight's privy among the nature of their existence, as if i wasn't even here.
There was a thin plaster of snow screening all these familiar things on the day i left.
Imagine that.
Evolution evolves only in its propensity to stay the same. It is a lazy beast that preys & employs upon the susceptibility of perception; the languid Dream of the Lamb; the visionary tick set deeply beneath the surface of the pathetic bleeding heart.
All this i have before seen, but has compounded upon me by the dry-tongue of this new life. A desert w/out an oasis. & i am panting. & i am sweating. i lick my palms but the taste of my essence is now changed, & the word 'FOREVER' materializes from out the speckled cloud-sky, & floats on in jest.
Real funny.
i sigh & blink heavy, turning away from the window, engaging tactical offense: out of sight, out of mind.
But the word 'FOREVER' has slipped thru, & in each corner of the room appears before me like a Cheshire cat's grin. It's teeth peppered w/ a drip of what looks like purple rust; a wide grin, jagged w/ imperfections & chipped w/ longings. & i am feathered in confusion.
i shake my head as to loose the hallucination from my mind; rub my eyes w/ the heels of dry palms as one slaps & shakes an old television set to set the image correct. Seemingly, none of this works. 'FOREVER' remains in a laughless smile. Grin. Smirk. Sneer.
Standing up, i begin to walk the length of the room, pacing sinisterly, idly looking at this & that, anything but that ghosting Tooth-smile. The room lacks decoration, & i realize the importance of such things have left the boxcars of my desire. The walls are bare; a dirty, extremely off-white. Had i pictures hung, i imagine i would be going hither & thither, pretending to straighten them, admire them, but alas, the walls are naked. i take a few minutes w/ the books stacked here & there thru out. thumbing & fingering those that lay atop the skyscrapers of paper.
Here is Sylvia Plath. Gorgeous. An insurmountable definition...she became a Suicide. Here is Richard Brautigan. Rough & tumble funny. i smile, remembering the time spent pouring over his trite words & even more trite situations...he shot himself in Idaho. What a state! & here is Hemingway. A Pollock of writers. Most of his stories unwittingly dry due to the dimensional nature of Time. All of which, tho, seemingly w/ a secret voice clambering up, screaming, 'paint the walls! Paint the walls!'
i have to shake the enticing voice from out my head. i am tired. All is too familiar, & i make the short traverse back round to my chair, sit, & flick out my smoldering cigarette.
As i watch it arc out & over, i yawn monstrous at the familiar & the chains of boredom by which all is bound.
& i yawn.
& yawn.
&...