I have a strange sense of apocalypse,
restless soul on high alert, the nonsense
acute, tongue
willing to homelessness also know that the muses have fits.
I have no words, only embryos
ideas that torture, screaming
fragility
but bleed.
one minute I have yet to go to the window,
like a box,
a moment longer to test philosophy and decide that,
in the background,
rain remains water.
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