It's the end of the world as you are it, and you feel defined, what you are was who you were when the second person is everyone elsewhere, right? Confusion is your faitful accomplice, guiding your right to left, a removal of action by the spatial position, returning to the same bed every night, and yes, no, maybe make the way into a part-time path appreciation redundancy for the continuity until the end: that's the power of stories! Can you day new mount at the middle of a place you did not choose; that's the choice of institutional car rear, a certain tea brewed cold and served on the hottest day in human history.
This poem is insane! ly good!