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somewhere a bird pukes for its offspring, & an alligator is eating its'. it is perfectly natural to see formless time pass through over under you, not in front or behind, as angles vary & the flux of such is impossible for humans to measure. and the wind over China reminisces your hair and hard fingers, now bored with permanent mountains & seas. you have peanut butter & bread crumbs on your face. you are sound asleep amid the cacophonous world. you are cashing a paycheck. you are tossing another grain of rice into another burlap sack. you are pouring wine. you're repeating the same story for a seventh time. you miss not knowing about time & its tricks, about life & its pricks. you miss the bus again & have forgotten your cigarettes, locked out of the house once more for the sakes of all the dreamt tomorrows... you find a few moments to ponder the world. it is seven o' clock in the morning. Post a comment in response: |
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