I have drowned the peaches in bleaches.

 Iffum irg romulus nay remus por favor con sin carne but I don't want to.

There was a wing that ate things like bottles and such sucheries. Not really bottles but jars. And jarrerries. And stuff like that. U know wot I mn? IKNOWOTIMN!
That sounds like a mineral or something. Like Iknowotiminium. Ik.
Moving pictures. Like moving pitchers. But with less throw. U kno? I do.
DidjuCthat? I did!
Kittens wear mittens in kitchens in kitchens smitten with being bitten. Dey hittin' me!
I tell you nay.
I ate that

 When you first experiment with an experience, how do you know that the experience won't overwhelm you?

 Won't make you into something you don't want to be?

 Won't kill you? Try nothing new. Err on the side of the known. Doubt exists for a reason. Remain, and remain.

There is a bird that sits just outside my window - a little black one. It whispers to me through the glass when I’m not paying attention, but then when I look at it, it gets quiet again, until my mind once more wanders away. Its whispers are low, foreign things that I feel like I shouldn’t be able to hear, that lie just barely within my threshold of hearing. The bird often tells me things like the past and the future – I’m not sure how I even understand it – but on rare occasions, it gives me orders. When it does this, I don’t usually let it finish its whisper: I bang on the window and frighten it away. When it flies away, it doesn’t return for days. Once, I let it command me. Just once. I listened to it whisper, but couldn’t make out what it said, but slowly an impulse gripped me. I had to run. A cool breeze began blowing through my head and my room, whipping up papers and flinging them about, blowing my thoughts into disarray. I had to run. My legs lifted me from my chair and carried me to the door in three big steps. Then I stopped. Why did I let this bird tell me what to do? Why did I even let it command me? I struggled and fought the impulse, making my way back to the window to put my fist through it. The black bird jumped from the windowsill and fluttered just outside for a moment. Then it flew away into the sunset, and I didn’t see it until five weeks later...until today.

 The bird's been back for a while now...

 It is frighteningly silent.

Do you repeat repeat yourself sometimes in efforts to do things like sniff[le]? 
Run, run, as fast as you cannon ball, you cannon catch the Me: It's a ricocheted bullet, bitten by teeth that break the peace, break the heart, break the mind, body, and soul. The Me breaks down humanity as soon as it fires. It fires every time you speak. It fires every time you crumble mountain peaks, and makes the futures look bleak to the point of pencils broken. To the point of pens dried. To the point of windowsills filled with broken glass and broken minds, bodies, souls. Broken shadows lie in the corner of the room, lonely, fractured by fractal interfaces of light, interfering with our outrageuous plight. We outrace the Aryans. We break them, united as one indivisible multiple of multiple races. There is no greatest race - only the human race. And when the human races the sea's inward breach, we lose. And when the human races the loss of breath, we find it torn from our lungs and lit on fire. And in the aftermath of the life, it all becomes lost in the pyre.

These big words, wrap your mind around them. Comfort them. Keep them. Don't let them fade from our use and become archaic terms found only in volumes of parchment pages when all becomes digital data.

I run the blade through the shifting desert sands, dragging it behind me as I trudge onward. Nothing but sand in all directions for miles. White-hot sand. I can barely stand to look at it, it's so blinding...but the sky is much brighter so I'm left with nowhere to gaze but at my small shadow and dark, sun-charred legs.

What has become of me? A prince, reduced to wandering this wretched desert wasteland. And this blade. This accursed blade. I reluctantly grip it tightly, choking it at the handle, hoping it dies and lets me let it go, to leave it behind and let it sink beneath ages of sand. But it still breathes - still follows me, leaving its winding trail for the wind to lick away. I come to the crest of a mountainous dune and see below a river winding its way between the dunes. Just a mirage. That's all. Just a mirage. I begin down the slope.

I am a phenomenon. I sweep the tubes like chocolate rain and numa numa. I spread like a virus, like burning papyrus, like mainstream rap lyrics and jet-stream anthrax. A phenomenon, like terror in the wake of a national disaster. A phenomenon like a monster natural disaster. Don't try to stand in my way because I'll sweep right through you. Attempts to avoid me devoid me of anything true. Because I'm a phenomenon.