the elisabeth of phrases won't let me sleep

I'm sitting in my wooden bed, hating electronic appliances. flashes make me sick, so do tiny elements, enclosed worlds, mental shortcuts so processed and transformed that I don't recognize what they're made of any more. I'm begging for wood, for paper. I want to put black soil into my mouth, I want to chew it, I want to get rid of the pop art, so overreacting in its brightness, though I like, I used to like it so terribly, I want to get back, I want to get back, I want to get back.
words like bread, the primeval bread with the low, sallow smell. so that I can sense how the structure breathes. and then the mycelium, the great motherly organism, wet corridors in constant proliferation, swelling, layer writing.
palimpsest smelling like life, and off to the soaked field with that laptop.
hundreds of hours spent in front of the screens fill my stomach, and those flashes, flashes again, like in Sankya's story, when they were beating him up, like he was, so I am waiting for the loss of consciousness, for the current to stop irritating my veins and for it all to collapse.
blood, mercury, metallic sheen.
it gushes from my body.

and it's such a pity that there's no ablative case in Polish any more.