I put things off, like most, chose instead the simple self gratifying acts, a thought flowing in that I want to follow, passes by like the landscape outside the window of the train. Instead then it’s the dream that continues the blur that is pasted into a darkening past, soon to die. To drift on a colorless cloud, in any direction, to sleep through it, or, if space dictates, give myself over, as a spectator, to the play of the blind believers of a fought for self. One pinned against the rest, who, in all manners of communication, stakes there claim. And I let them, I am then the fuel to their fire, as my eyes see their show, my ears hear their proclamations.
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