it's a bust, however i'll keep trying, looking, loving when the hurricane shutters break, and wet gusts fill the house, i won't be there, i will be elsewhere i don't want to go back, i'd prefer a house, in the bayou, or somewhere similar it is a miracle to continue, and i am sad sad to not have more substance to rap poetic about, what shall i write? impressionistic trivialities perspectives of modern life as an acid freak, as a nearsighted defect 'the application' is a scourge, shall i be free of it? there are decade old letters where my mind wrestles with the future, pleading that my timed self escapes a trap
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