When I'm drawn up, the window's pain is mine. Cracks won't hesitate under pressure. I proliferate and redact, advance and bleat. I heard that it's a compass that ought to make the call, but I'm sitting here waiting for North to point to a single place. That's how immobility happens. What do I want! I don't ask anymore, it's stark and flustered. When geniuses are asked (after passing) what to do, they say nothing. I'm a desire wrapped in shattered glass. I was framed. And I'll go where gravity and rocks and wind send my refractions to sleep.
Thank you : )
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