bedroom eyes in the kitchen, walking the dog on the turnpike.. i can look at my palm and pinpoint the line that went wrong in my life.. solar winds always disrupts a synapse, but happenstance says it’s my conviction that tends to collapse. Speak lines.. they’re never on time... lines of magnetic fields, not on time.. makes me s t r e t c h e d , trying to attach opposite corners of a square, can’t reach the other end. bend back and question, what do you do when you’re passed the stage of suicidal, done with denial?... compunctious convulsing… acknowledgement of the dynamics of life, enhancement of the tyrannic strife. could’ve done something, been somebody… something sad, what a waste. dying near star death… phantasmagoria… and the dog is still on the median.
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