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every morning
and you wake up and look out and things start going back to their places yes,
sure here I am again still in this place, once characterized by a quicker
urgency of not being there now a higher more complicated hurry for
a different setting but woven into intricate patterns like a seemingly childish
picture by klee and then it is all back with its heaviest load even birds
don't make sense mixed with the sound of traffic doors slamming the
smell of poison full agenda phone ringing and this smoking cigarette always
lit in some ashtray mugs of coffee buried by papers and these you's
disappearing everywhere, how can i get them back i already feel cut
down to the skeleton but in the mirror i still look ok
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