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twelve

Enough of real life, or should I say not enough of what I thought real life was, a fantasy, a dream, an illusion at least for me, no matter what I think I see. I have no choice but to fear what approaches because I can tell what it isn't, gives me too much room to consider what it may be.

Clouds cough up the moon & the dismal heat stretches all the way there & back, my criss-crossed shoelaces, frayed, an allegory if I try hard enough, I can persuade myself of truth in a snap. An assignment, my own imagined workbook, to create a lesson where no lesson needs to be. What an idiot! That guy there, chopping heads off & disposing of them naked while the body decays at home (I saw it in the paper)... He's got potential too -- imagine & play with your own mind & tickle yourself pink & disgust...

Incoherent & intangible, my being as I try to lay it all down on the line, one line at a time. An endless exercise of whatever & whatnot & so forth & so on. Language fails -- we should find something better.

I should find something better to do with my time.

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Let it be known there is a fountain that was not made by the hands of men
Grateful Dead
(lyrics by Robert Hunter)

...a currency owned by the people...
...not the Federal Reserve...

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