Karma, karma-karma-karma, karma Chameleon.....

"It comes and goes...
IT COMES AND GOOOOOOeeesoeoss."

The song blared raw and unfiltered on the radio. Yellow light filtered down from the molded plastic fixtures. Tiny holes piped in sound from a mesh screen. More tiny holes.
Why was THIS the first thing I heard when rising from death, or coma, or karma?
Fuck, karma. FUCK KARMA!!!
And now what?
Blame the morphine, blame the brain damage.
Wasn't there some kind of scapegoat? Any kind of useable entity?
Not in the eyes of the law. So now it was time to change all that bullshit. Snifffff. Snort.

Speaking of sniffing and snorting....shit man. It would be great to party this ride out. Don't wanna think. Don't wanna feel.

Pain, suddenly pain. More than two minutes ago. Have I been awake for two minutes????
And I am being pulled under again,
turned in the washing machine,
jaw locking,
brain slowing down to a static roar,
and paralysis.
Quiet. When I say it slowly in Spanish...sounds like "K-eye-ett-tay."

They came filing in, one after another, white coats gathering like a washed out photo of Stone Hendge. I am inside out. My vitals glowing on a green and black screen. Makes sense then, my world is reversed.
Muffled and inaudible voices, ear drums barely resonating, brain shutting it down. A black curtain closing in around the back of my eyes, even though I lay awake. FUCK!
"Cut it off," the white coats say in unison. "CUT IT OFFF!" they cry, and brandish their knives! "Off with his head!" screams an echo of a musty old memory cell, extinguishing itself in a futile attempt to fight. No old fairy tales now.
I twist under the heavy blanket of my flesh, dead weight, guilt, injury.
I cry out into the dark as a strange torque jerks my form. But I do not feel on a cellular level. My brain won't allow it. Something in the solar system of my atoms is splitting, somewhere in my milky way there is an atom bomb.

There has been time. And like any other unidentified element of reality, of this folded dimension upon infinity, I can't process how much of it has passed. But judging by the scar tissue and the wrinkles in my skin, it has passed. Cells don't lie. Well, normal ones won't. So where is my FUCKING LEG???? Who am I?