hollow fragmentations, approximations, better left alone. movements beyond an unfortunately all-too-familiar pale, going the way of “i wish this hadn’t happened, before.” here i sit, on the floor, in the middle of a kitchen, 3 in the wrong meridian, asking questions i wish didn’t have answers; marbles drip from the ceiling and try to roll but there are no gutter catchment systems, anymore. they hit one another as unmanned bumper cars.

i fall and the breaking of suchsaid fall is not caught by a concept of “home.” hollow! empty! but i refuse, i will not cry out your name. i am here, okay? and that’s that.

you ask me questions but show no sign of hearing answers. are you addicted to the feeling of asking? does it feel right to you? locked in a prison of adolescence, no answers to these questions, an arbitrary selection opted from a too-full can. reliability like a toy, how it’s played with and strewn away. “going through a lot,” again.

distractions, attention, treated as facts of life, given as a given hardness, assumed as immutable. do we not all bleed? is it not our responsibility to lance these wounds? must they not be disinfected? you sicken me. sit, in stasis. weep, in filth. i will roam in the desert until i find an oasis.

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