Losing track of how the time stops once the back beckons us to where we began.

Déjà voodoo done it again. The rhyme turned the moment on an urn. Remembering how the fabric could only connect , the false stars falling into place between the white lines.

Things that are best told in code made plain: the eyes aswirl at sink in rest, the tab let out to pee, the siren and seizure salad eschatology prefiguring the certainty of the respawn.

Bars upon the illusion of freedom, our only chance to speak what may. The sense that this has continued to occur passes on under the side of the burn. Phantasms linger while we walk, waking into a way of knowing the collective individual entitlement. Emptying the singe after each use, as the smudge would want it. Nothing stood after the reading. Everything was played out. The tense sense of brevity made abstract for the obtuse. Filling the well worn mailing with a sense of the conditional made to order.

As if the conditions could change with the shampoo. Rather, glimpse and repeal.

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