I’m tired. I’m tired of saying I can’t do it. Because it won’t be right. It won’t be perfect. But I can’t hold it in anymore. I have to put something to the page here. Excuse me…

Left with the longing of–no, the drivel–no, my sanity–no, the interruptions…

There is no timeframe for it, but you know…

We went there, yes, I remember (how it was (with you))

How many rabbit holes convoluted into one another do we have to capture with our soul


To see past a single fog bank

Whose demise will spell the revolution

Why are we still like this

Self-sacrificial lambs

Murderous flock

No ripe fruit on my morning counter could stave off the plague

But maybe we don’t have to

What happens then?

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