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| Ironies of life. Pulling me out of my self-induced mundane existence. Unshared opinions, faulty lines. I stare at the blots of words until they become mere spots of humanity. Fingerprints of a so-called existence. Hurtling across perfumed, white planes. Yet I indulge in the banality of the words, while chipping off dried blood from my offending index finger. My mind is a dancing blank of celebrated stillness, a paradox, an irony, a matrimonial bed. For I am to be wed with disconcerting silence, and men will die of starvation and want. For I chose to stop my own Leaks. |
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