I came to blame the fever
it was in some ways easier
some ways more believable,
when burying ideas to
ascribe them some other form;
of their old stuff
packed away I said nothing,
sun setting
on Mondays a bit hesitantly,
a but unsure, something to
do with the blood ritual of the
inured mass-machine mash,
sun in my eyes is damaging
my feet sweat in these shoes
not wearing any socks
the radiator is cold
I am othered from the outdoors
regardless, by conspiratorial window
panes,
the sunlight reflects off my screen
I am typing blind
like always.
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