Musk laces the room with a certain density.
I'm glued to my laptop. Glued sticky.
Dreams drenched in fog.
The question begs to be written,
the haze shaken off by a humble hand.
I notice, I want to make myself wrong.
I notice. For not having this figured out.
I envision a time where I nostalgically acknowledge
this insatiable purgatory for the rich experience it lent.
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