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Infamy is not in the cards tonight,

and so I remain at the hands of boredom,

comforted only by the silent caresses of the fireplace.

What I have now is time to ponder

of wrongdoing and reformation,

arguments with myself and a forgetting of it all.

The rug grows sparsely at my feet,

parting its worn pink threads like a giant treading on a sea of coral.

But it would be only dying coral, exhausted and lifeless after

a drawn-out night of thinking.

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