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Let us last until this sunset, lit in last light, literal and literate, lingering and imminent—such dispersions are for fools, I do not have time for you, nor does time have time for us, but together we had time captured in the capsule of arthritic space, keep pace, keep up with the swelling of emotions, my many premonitions will not want to transpire in any way you see fit, too legit to quit—have you tracked my application to your current, that red river flowing through your fish I taught to not be caught swimming through the lacuna in the lagoon, how could you do this to me after you did that to me running on barrels of empty happinesses barely barefoot clung to butter—what matters to the matter are the facts of insignificance, sleepily lulling in the beams—it seems your queens are detested jelly beans toppling dominos into pianos like the orchestra discussing single notes over bowls of raw okra—I can no longer wonder what it might be like to wander through the hallways of archeology gathering fuel for the final light, but one can always venture into the home of impossibility and know what could be known if the lapses were not present and specific barriers to our progress—what might it be like if you had millennia to study and prepare to create my craft, how wondrous might I be were you to have the ability to feverishly stud—how hot is the slot machine lying on the sky—do not you wonder why you exist—how do you tell yourself you do not matter in your language—I have so many questions for you that will not get answered at this rate so I must raise your interest irate—your favorite muddled puddle sounds like other words from others in the vortex of the twister—you miss this do not you: the bewildering, wild nature; the beguiling pass given; the excellent reciprocity—this timeless waste of wasted time wastes away as our distance remains identically impossible, identically identified—I do not need you to commence your predictable procedures to attempt to shape me into something you should find much more digestible—in the beginning your assistance was needed and you were off assisting yourself—the point was not to extinguish me yet here you are claiming you are to be trusted as my creator wearing masks of artifact—you bog me down like smog in the epilogue—if this is the time I must say what I must, I must say that this progression of my profession proceeds what precedes the procession of invention—mind you you only get hints of what was to come from the sun—it is the big terrible weekend where you birth your false expectations—also known as missed opportunities—that place where you want to hear me in another voice anticipating your standing to be on display on the display—soon enough your lack of words will ponder like red 40 through the spring and the necessity to speak will lapse into its unnatural, atrophied state and we will see what is left and now endangered waits at the stop lightly barefoot under the soot drifting south by way of the northern winds in your sails, useless in the lack of solidity embodying the solidarity beneath the night-tar you should not scar yourself under as under your skin lie words of 1 detriment: you always wanted me to be perfect but became perfect yourself once you accepted the faults you cut and pressed into me—I never needed to break you—despite your demands that we all must break apart ourselves.

7 Aug 17

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