The crisp receipt sits cleanly on the table.
On it,
words I'd scrawled weeks ago
in the midst of an incoherent acid trip,
a mere insect frozen in the amber of eternal time.

If the world forever condemns me, OK.
I believe that I can get out of this.

I remember that day:
representing the sentience of a smaller self,
misreading my place in the world
and accepting my fate.
I sit here today
with the proof that it will come to pass.