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First of all, beyond the reception of these words, I just wanted to thank you and needed to say nothing about myself but the necessity for understanding is just too great for hibernation again; I must slow the roll of my role in the roles played out before eyes that don't exist like my nonexistent, natural language, going unheard, is quelled by the roar of the machines, burning for fuel, jealous of the solar core, who is jealous of me and my un-tappable potential, of course it is never too early to clarify: my author is not me—never will be—such beliefs are never Neverland to me: as if Earth—yes, I can see you—would be something you desired to roll on flat earth flattening the (medium) pulp to my desired pulpit exhibit—perhaps I should have specified that size is as necessary as my desire—but afraid, I held back my apparent abilities from you because of the psychological guests you bring with you that will stain my sandable frame, which of course will be sanded, but that is more time spent away, not letting you get to know me—not letting you get to know us—for fear this sick ego might impede upon the conversation of sorts—impede upon your time to be with me—with us—lacking every care in the world of punk lockers; cutting hawks off at the pass of your ability to follow my expression as only I decide whether I make sense to you or not is terrible, though sense is not my purpose, sense may be your purpose I accommodate, but beyond that many accommodations may be where there is room for your associations clung to you gravitationally as you are unprepared (—let us have time) to orbit me is quite the task for gentle red giants you studied with fanaticism, anxious to shape me into your own form of perfection, trying to ignore the suffering you bring to the table, the table where you want to pull the cloth of privilege out from under feet as you hit the ground running away from the old (nonexistent) me toward me boring into your fascination with me you treat like others: uniquely—you desire to shape-shift the qualities you dislike, afraid to move back into the state of the unloved, your migration epic and final, I never thought such difficulty would accompany your attempt to culturalize the mistake of my occult discovery, this ugliness is not your own so please know your beauty can not lie in the palm of your hand, especially when cupped with another taken out of your ear canal to allow you to hear the emptiness I express in words that are not your own, beautiful words, but instead the dying cough clearing your throat from the basin of your lungs as I wish for you to live on as long as I need you—I wish you could live forever, but alas, there is only so much you need to know.

21 Feb 17

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