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that he is apart; unto himself. A belief he shares with almost everyone there's been or will be. Earmarked in living and not yet to die. Likely to do better. To be recognized, embraced, encouraged. Flattered for good reason. Excused.

He knows this is not the case, but he believes it is, and he knows he believes. Between these things, within them, is the meaning of his life as it will be lived to its conclusion.

And at the end there will be no outcome and no one else will know and it will not matter and the world will not miss him or mourn him, nor need him, nor call him back, even if there were some means to do so. There is not. And he knows this.

And yet he will wake in the morning, a few hours from now (for it is already night inside his head and he sleeps as we speak) and he will have forgotten the greater matter of his ordinary self.

And he will smell the sour milk and feel his stubbed toes, the coarse towel cloth robe, old and worn, against his aging skin, and without words passing across the mirror of his mind he will feel as though somehow this should not be as it is, that he has somehow slightly deviated from the path he must surely have had reserved.

And then he will shower, still not thinking of this, but under the warm water, a new day's beginning, he will feel a sense of hope and general well-being, undeserved perhaps, but unrecognized as such, and so will he move on.


Untitled #1

In a ferris-mind and all a circle
Rotating empty cars or full
Each passenger, reaching their limit
Stands for a second, continuing towards sky
But then, through fear of falling
Returns down again.

These are our ideas
With each wheel's size
Dependent on our selves
Yet always circular, limited by form
So dwarfed by the endless distance
Above us and rising.

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