I wish that I could say that it all just faded away

that every day brought

a ne-



a fresh start as the sun

came up

over the skating steam

skimming itself like owl chick down

over the top of a corporate cup of

ceramic bean extract;

That the sweet cream,

the spoonful of toffee stretched and poured slowly

viscous and wavering with the weight of time,

would be something to kick/punch/smack my soul

back to the start,

the checkered line of ignorance and bliss.

I wish I could say that,


somehow each day seems to maintain its weight,

each page of the days of my life

stacking into an unwritten novel

8,382 pages and counting

the beginning mostly full of shit and tears

the middle, the kind of thing someone would want to scream at,

and only in the last thousand pages

did the protagonist actually begin

to fight against something that he saw in himself since the start.



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