a Surgeon with Steady Hands

This is a poem about liking to be lost while showing empathy for cities and towns.

I like to forget where I am, then remember I'm nowhere I've been before.
I'm tempted to ask someone, "how did I get here?" but no one's around.
So, which way to the pyramids? Or don't they have pyramids in the west coast of limbo?
I hear that gold here pours out of the ground into your ears.
It sounds like it's raining, I'll reverse it and send it up.
Rain on the rain and out into the universe-
A comet of cold gold coming at you from wherever I am-
You are always around.
It's a prelude to wherever I'm bound.
I could get away from here, yeah I could travel anywhere, but where will the places go to get away from their insides? They're full of enough to annoy any person.
You are your own remedy for centuries of sensory collapse.
You are always around.

A sudden pinch could pull me out.
Or a surgeon with steady hands.