It's the “be all, end all”   of everything accumulated.    Tiny castles of sand are bogging me down.    … down … down   I'm falling asleep at the wheel.    These dust-covered piles are so unorganized.    My thought process is working on previously viewed cache, hey, and I can't decipher between right and left, up and down, and up and down.   This spinning sensation is making me nauseous.   My head is so full that I can't hold it up.   Straight is the line that I'd like to walk.   And I miss my comfortable home.