Non Sensical Sense of That Color

(More alternating writing with Avery. I guess you could consider it a sequel to the previous one.)

The millions of people coursing through my veins reject my body; I separate myself from me, our entities separate at long last. At last long, I am an asexual flake of crust. I crawl, I, I am an I. I can snap, I can retract, I am above reproduction, I am laughing at you. Your peals of laughter hurt me, how dare I? What was I thinking, me? You weren't thinking, you, that is the issue's core. Now think your non-thoughts, insignificant fool. Stop trying to break from me, our insignificance is fulfilling like some sort of garage sale. Remember that time I found the glow in the dark yoyo. Your insistence on substance astonishes me. Stop being so damn visible, please. Please let the visibility stop being. I think we spoke too soon, my lip is bleeding again. All this logic makes me wonder what John is doing. Oh look, my legs have found the audacity to move me. Jackasses. ha. My ass is attached to my legs, and they are moving. I'm actually being consistent. I like this repetitive motion, I think we should continue. Well, I guess we can see where they take you. Oh yeah, the walls are gone, we're now moving through the ceiling. Is a ceiling still the ceiling if you lay on your back? John would know the answer. I wish we were more like John, he has most answers. How could we lose her? I think I'm feeling sadness- well, that's what she called it. Maybe it is just the ceiling without walls. You know what? Fuck John. He's an asshole. What's the fun of having all the answers? That's when the inquisitive journey ceases to be. Ceases? What was I thinking nothing ceases here. We couldn't even find a fucking door. We had an eternity to look and I gave up. My thoughts are pathetic anyhow. John is pathetic, you are so fucking pathetic, I can't even walk without tripping over these tiles. Tiles? Where were those last eternity? Let's take a peek underneath, shall we? Fanfuckingtastic, it's my door. It's smaller than I expected. The yellow red orange color barely makes sense, it barely writes our number, it barely reads. This door is shrinking with time, how can that be? The numbers are changing...I thought time wasn't possible here. I reach for the handle before it laughs out of existence. As I touch it I am already through it. All this drab whiteness is bland and depressing. I wonder why God has done this to me, ME, of ALL people, ME. We then realize that behind God is a man, the only separation being the curtain of oblivion. My existence is just as meek as his, He just has a name. Our room is just as I expected though, the white is somehow comforting, my existence somehow more appealing. You are contemplating shutting the door behind us. Or, at least you would, if there ever was a door. I do notice a patch of grey in what I guess you could call "the distance." Might as well give it a chance, nothing else here possibly, maybe, whatever let's just walk. I'm trying not to smirk at your sad attempt to blame God. He doesn't even deserve a capital "G." He made people like John, who the hell likes her? Plus, he's a man, I've never even met the guy, bet he's horrible at conversating. I bet he has a grating, "holier than thou" personality. Hell, where do I think the term "God complex" comes from? ANyways, I'm in the grey now. Not all you made it out to be. Who the hell forgot to put up a "wet paint" sign my hands are all grey and sticky now, dammit. Now I'm stumped. The foolishness of this irks me, would you write me in a visual story next go-around, I like colors.