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Rhythm of Hatred

Learned and so numb, enough to come into my room.

A speaker is like a pillow that can shake your sensibilities away.

Trying to get away from the idea that I can ever reproduce a moment.

A cigar smoke tendril floating to become a microscopic film of dust.

Light can fill you up.

A word can empty you.

Hair of deepest black.

I feel like I can only know myself as a reflection in the souls of the people I have ever known.

Time means less to me than the ticking and clicking of amis as they pass into the past.

It is like a life of goodbyes, with no certain future.

She responds with shock and dismay to a pantomimed suicide.

“Never that,” she says, “never that.”

Or, perhaps, all too often.

There is a comedy in seeing the ignorance that surrounds me without considering that ignorance that must emanate from myself.

putrescence.

I want to believe that I can live the rest of my life surrounded by these good people.

To let myself and my desires float away.

Not to change the world.

Not to find love.

Not to look a child of mine in the eyes.

To be truly able to fill myself with a landscape at dawn.

Mist rolling off a mountain.

Standing still in a hot summer rain fully clothed, eyes closed and soaked, but happy.

I fear that I have nothing left to say, that all this is echoes of a passionate past.

That I am jaded to the core.

All this is madness, I think, and I can not see myself holding it together indefinitely.

But I will sit here and count in order to find an order.

To feel a logic.

Waiting here, and nothing comes.

Nothing comes.

Nothing.

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