Multiple instant

    38. That's the number my mind has chosen to abstract itself while I try to ignore the discordant barks              that underlie in the deepest depths of my last great negative thought, that seven-tailed whip lash                  with rusted splinters whose ferric decay remains latent, anchored to my cervical spine, often                      reproducing automatically with any sudden thermal jolt.

38. And the digit returns to strut before my brow, staining its horizon garnet under my lunatic gaze, and I dissolve it into a monochromatic, phantasmagoric kaleidoscope, lacking perspective, wickedly obsolete, uselessly scandalous, a dispensable ingredient in any goulash of effigies arising in occipital forests with shoulders stained garnet on their horizon.

38. The scrawny, haughty prudishness of obstructed Eustachian tubes sunbathes over mercurial amoebas and their juvenile zephyr lacking reflection persists, insisting, droning on, the intangibility of breaking free angrily from its reality, psychotic, reasonably forged, destined to suspiciously gasp in whispered confirmations possessive of its naivety.

38. I dissect it, associate it, integrate and confine it, and sentence its apex staining its horizon garnet under my lunatic gaze, and I disintegrate it against a cascade onanistic, empty, of minutely wandering vertebral-pendulum, presumptuous of its strategic intrinsic opaque iridescence, a squall embedded in the temporal space that reigns over the voyage to the garnet horizon.

38. It's 19:19.