The chemical brothers

and as the Prozac subsided and hordes of pain-killers ran for the hills, screaming bored, tired of the constant whining left him, hovering between thorns and trembling thoughts abandoned in a dockyard with seagulls squabbling over his sanity, fading fast still waiting for a ship that never came and yet, hope remains stupidly lingering too moronic to comprehend momentarily, left him emancipated free from chemically-induced realities forced to confront a cursed reflection a dead ringer for Rip van Winkle staring back at him almost forgotten, left to rot on a stinking heap of make believe take away the dose and see what happens…