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Everybody's talking. The room has become a carnival of surrealist facades, each

containing a joyous form of grief and sorrow reaching from beyond what really are just the

tone, the voice, the attitude. I don't hear a word they're saying, only the sound of the infinite

universes screaming for my attention. The ambiance of those tiny specks of time where

any of these actually makes any sense.

They make me think that maybe life doesn't have any meaning, or maybe life isn't

life at all but just plentiful piles of pain and people packed with pitiful perfectionist

perspectives of perceptively passionate perfectionism. And maybe there is a world out there

that will show me more than just the pain. A boy once showed me a photograph of a star.

Long dead yet still floating in the skies, gazing at the cosmic connection of the human

condition concealed in absolute maximalist absurdity. Then the photograph suddenly

moved. He says it's a mirror. I think it's the universe under my eyes. The alien gloom of an

unforgiving habitat. The world of perpetual blackness below that once was home to my

nuclear heart. There was something here once but there is something else now, something

so wonderfully weird. A tearful eye watching me from above, a blood-stained knife thrown

at the good tree, a poem written on the back of my hand, scattered pieces of a heart made

from wax, and even a silhouette of a woman I do not know but cares so deeply. I asked her

what is going on. I stood still, answered by my own echo.

My human body is out there, hidden in the depths of those foggy clouds. The soft

summer grass evoking unending happiness while I stand still under the light rain. Clothes

and various things from my suitcase dropped dead on the wet concrete. Has anybody seen

my pants? I haven't been paying any attention lately. I miss being around. I can leave

whenever I want, I have time, but I know at some point someone somewhere will care. So

let the remaining days be aimless, let every move be free. This is a strange world and here

we are, trying to make sense of it all when the only way to not feel the pain is to not feel

anything at all. The only way to live is to leave. It doesn't make sense, but then what does

make sense? The sun feels so nice today. It makes me wonder; it makes me wander.

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Published in issue 5


Published in issue 5


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