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Distance
There is a breeze, somewhere outside of my consciousness, and it is my loneliness, not the dreaming or the visions or the sagging depth of the ocean that is the entire universe. The air is stale with damp promises that someone nearby needed to label, and in doing so created a designation that no one would care to become. There is a sound, off the languid shore, not the bickering or the gunshots or the insistence that is complete. I have not yet mangled all my serenity into a little box to keep up on a shelf. There is an eye that is watching, near a table filled with lotions. It hears the regrets of lampshades with lightbulbs dark, burnt-out. Under the table, not a tone is ushered in the gloom. Falling emblems that rise out of the shade. Not a flag or a label, nor a pocket to put a nickle in. I have not yet tangled all my permission into a form to be filled out and discarded. Let me tell you a secret. There are no surprises.
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