Eighteen

9:30 AM and I'm walking past the cemetary / is it me or does everything seem so ancillary? / and what of the spaces between our concepts and creations / and the future-proofing advent and its supercillious machinations / and the life and the breadth and the depth and the nothing / and the lips and the moment and the kind / and the future where we stutter and we shock / we break all of the locks / and we fall down / fall distant / fall cold

The End

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