I inhaled raw spice until my atoms sang the Litany Against Laundry. My skin peeled back, revealing a smaller me inside, screaming in Chakobsa. I don’t walk—I tremble across dimensions, riding sandworms that speak in riddles and tax laws. I butter my toast with prescience. I kissed a Bene Gesserit and now I’m pregnant with possibilities. My heartbeat syncs with the spice extractor rhythm. I eat sand. Not metaphorically. Literally. My teeth are tiny crysknives. I once stared at a guild navigator until he turned into flan. Time bends around me like a shy worm. I whisper to ornithopters in their native language: "Bzzzt.” My dreams are directed by David Lynch, but edited by a Harkonnen with ADHD. I dissolved into a spice storm and reformed in someone else's debt.
I am Muad'Dib, but backwards. I am Bid'duam. I see all. I understand none.
Water is theft. Spice is truth. Kneel before my crunchy aura.