Monday, January 28, 2008
trajectory
These days, there is too much you call yours, and too little that you mistake for your own. I sit here, typing, typing, typing, in the rhythm of dotted hiccups, as if it can change something, when really, nothing has ever once changed for the better, unconstructive, apart from the myriad of concooted excuses whose birth denotes something far more insidious. Twisted cousin of faith, that I am wrong, that I must be right in that I'm wrong. And hence, the carousel of feared refrains, the inevitable reworkings of tattooed burns.
I should stick to chartered waters
she procrastinated @ 22:05 |
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