Schadenfreude reminds me of fingerspitzengefühl;
enthralled does not begin to evince the totality
lf the overdone linguistic piano keystroke.

Strike lines from the record as they are entered,
because none of them are perfect, and yet,
leave those last two, for they imply that my hands
and their appendages will continue to sense what the 
far-away neurons could never understand on their 
own: it's a process, digits and numerals, that happens
at the edge of perception, and does not feel good

as it goes on its merry way, and a single organism
can love it when one is chopping parsley and the
same one cuts itself open.

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