Scandalous City of L

I could frantically rip my eyes out of their orbits and fling them at a wall. I'd have some enjoyment watching them burst and ooze --sliding down the wall, and plopping on the ground with a romping sound effect --reminiscent of stinky fish flopping about starving from an oxygenated atmosphere; gills collapsing. Suffocate!

Oh wait. If, they are my eyes -- I can't see. So, it's not anything I can't stand to see --that eats at me. My eyes are not at fault (except for expectations of interpreted form). It's entombment, a restlessness, a helplessness -- a passion uncharted teeming for disclosure. Defiling...

The box is my own. If I could wrap it up or put it in an envelope, who would I send it to? I guess it's self-addressed. The answer is in this note yet it is wrapped over and over and over -- unraveling will take a million enternities. It feels like a personal rescue is no-longer stepping on grass. "Dying is easy -- living is hard"-- challenge accepted, thank you very much.