One Sent, Run On

I wonder how it feels to go into a paragraph and realize that you
are dealing with a single sentence partway through;
when the punctuation and confounding conjoining methods
bring an and up when an end might have done, and a but 
yet as your patience ran thinner than the page you’re considering
tearing into chunks and adding your own dots where they belong –
for the nearness of your strain and anxious senses proliferate:
you cannot smell or hear as the length of your hell becomes the
very definition of enlightenment, a prescription that could not be
offered over the counter or via the doctor; semi-describable; rather
a felt-tipped life moment that helps you see that the trees do not end
at the ground, nor are the roots a sufficient way to see the edges of
interconnected everything, and every word is not enough to make
the pain of going on and on and on disappear: and why would you want that…

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