Sick On It

They all been apparitions
Every one of 'em.
An' I loved 'em all.
It ain't really much a surprise neither.
Might be the only way somethin' don' really exist sneaks up on a man an' don' surprise him.
Never really snuck on me though, have'ta say.
They was apparitions cause I made 'em that way.
Graftin' onto 'em an image.
An' they all made up jes enough of it that I kep' settin' juice into the projector.

Like the lass I wrote storybooks on when I was a young'un.
Sometimes thinkin' will could 'liminate the world borne out by evidence.
Like Daza an' Arita without a yellow flag to fly.

An' that one with the twisted hair an' bony hips.
Where the ticks jes weren't far enough along...
No phantom could match her mimic, but I stared straight through both.

An' my creation on the brink of reality.
At the stage of an oil paintin' when all that exists is a beautiful an' terrible mystery.
An' an artist too terrified to look directly at the model.

An' you too.

An' you too.