There's something wrong with the tactile hallucination of finger on magazine print,
Scraping, pulling, folding the light but durable material
Flipping the pages, they don't cut.
The hands are stale and dry like memories
The eyes set deep in skull are a picture of a picture.
The sun shines through a window.
The perception persists.
A bizarre fascination grows. Smelling the roses too closely.
The bladder fills.
Mirth is unreachable just as loved ones.
The keyboard is light and hollow.
The hands move without prompt.
It is a thought, an idea with no origin,
and a pinky sticking out.
It is a story about a species a dull-witted nation does not care to save.
It is a persistent cold dulled and returned by the presence and removal of a jacket.
It is a lack of work when a break would suffice, and the guilt thereby experienced.
It is a home for a boarder and deliberate obfuscation.
It is a song whose meaning is clear after the first listen, discarded after consumption.
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