I've lost myself

Where am I? In the park, I went round it. The perimeter was not so big, and the tour was taken counterclockwise from above. There was a statue where the graffiti whispered about it. "Lies" it breathed. There was a phenomenal achievement of graffiti on a Philadelphia Electric Company building sort of pier. "Hot Boo," it read. Such a perfect spot and that is what to write? Maybe an arrow of love shot at a girl, or some story I don't know.

The presumptions make me nauseous, and often enough they're mine own presumptions. When asked a question and I look for the answer lately I've been being made mockery of. I'm not offended; it really is a flattery. At least they're listening. The past two days I've chattered and sang to myself nonstop, to keep the internal dialogue at bay. She still creeps in, the wheels still creak but I am trying to get it all out. I've been on some strange diet of almond granola, bananas, and nonfat yoghurt. Restlessly, my girl asked me if I was on drugs in less words.

I asked her which drugs she would think I were on. I'm not on any, but she suggested narcotics. No, I'm very electrically charged, boceta. Voltaire's Penn Treaty Park set the scene, with redundance and potholes of credibility. It was a perfect day.