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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