I stand at the crossroads. I am in sodden ground. I cannot be shifted to fertile soil. The decay has set in. How does a man marry such sunken existence? How does he care about this
First I think a thought. It is a shadow at dusk. Rarely is it the sun’s clear light. So I write the shadow. I put a full stop. I sit and wait for light. Nothing. I am used to not
I do not know myself. This bone house acts without thinking, like a chicken running with its head cut off. I brandish my sword, stab others, and feel remorse. I do not learn from m
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