Zonked

I've got nothing to say...none. Though every second sentence in the spiralling namelessness of feral thoughts, the only thing that attempts to make its presence felt through the void of utter scatterbrainedness, begins with the word shoot. And that's all I detect in the flitting matter spinning in self-possessed orbits like in the cosmos. But that's it. It begins...is heard fleetingly and then dies out like a wannabe echo in a dingy room that would never know acoutics more than its pile of dusty musty old newspaper, rotting cardboard boxes spotted with rat droppings. After that one word there is supersonic noise that I can't hear and therefore feel it's all a balnk. Something important flits away and just the word remains...shoot. I so want to get it over with. I've held my breath long enough.