In the absolute form, your ones and zeroes become lies and truth, your songs become time bombs, your dance becomes hollow wood tap tapping on broken glass, your hands are feet that shuffle towards edges, insects, maggots, squirming towards the lamp at the end of the tunnel, squirming for feeling, squirming against the cold, these days, these nights, these full times and these empty times, this suffering, hurdles, fingernails, words, silence, upside-down indices, and what, what, what can I do? What can I do but wait?
©another
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