Oh, what would I do without you?

 

But clearly, I am doing,

without you.

 

I have experienced new lows,

surpassing the Everest that I made of us

with the silence under the Marinara Trench:

it can be very, very cold,

(if you’re not used to it)

like you.

 

I have had my eyes opened

to new things

like how

the letter ‘N’ is the same upside down,

and how,

when you say a familiar word

enough times,

it will look more gibberish than gibberish;

A familiar name, too,

will —

enough enough enough enough enough enough enough enough enough

enough enough enough enough enough enough enough enough

enough enough

enough enough enough enough enough enough enough enough enough enough

really, enough.

 

I have dreams inside of dreams,

What is?…currently…my? real dream?

Over spiked coffee with my uncaring but interested friend,

I pull up hypotheses:

they are cooperative,

if limp,

like drugged white rabbits from a velvet top hat.

The one that got the most applause

was the one proposing:

“My dream is to write fiction and to write fiction one cannot be content, indeed, to write fiction one must live friction and if, between a placid life and a tragic shit one, the choice must be made, then surely, and dearly, I must go.”

 

I do.

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