Syllable block, don’t listen. Look, it’s something else. Notifications: cough, plus zero, deadened at the street’s terminus. Walk, I’m run. Renamed, dis-easy, renege/ade. Incoherent reality bled wet, under the concerto’s sunspot. Cello the timber, each forest can’t see itself in the subsequent two by fours; the glass stuck to my boots inhales deeper than the ocean’s bench. Play the shame, or switch to the randomness that forgives, the stochastic radio that naturally selects without the long cycles of life and jest. I’ve been bested by ideology, baked clammy in wordy mealworms wriggling around my painstem, ensuring that the trunks fall down whenever I dive, spin.

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