the run-on sentence that ran away

[saw]

I'm not really paralyzed, just unable to make any meaningful movement, oh sure I can wiggle my toes and there is nothing organically wrong with my arms or my legs, it's just my damn brain that's on the fritz, betraying me once again as I grow longer in the tooth, but shorter with my creativity, but maybe contemplating the uniqueness of peeling paint on the ceiling can be the genesis of a great piece of art, and that running with that notion isn't the worst thing that can happen to a man, perhaps it's a genius form of meditation letting your eyes follow a line of cracking plaster slowly to it's terminus and back, a kind of lazy man's spark of originality, wait, I believe that's john lennon's face up there, silently conveying me to imagine, as he once sang to us, maybe any ceiling, or wall, is all you need to become an artist or a writer, like foscusing on your belly button or trying move objects with only your mind, it could be the tao of virtuosity, a wiggily line to the stars, an indoor road that leads to changing your mind.