These words appear as they are, planted as such in my mind.
When I try to appear through them, the text becomes stained and insipid. It’s not a work of writing that I must do, but a work of erasing.
What speaks within me knows, the rest must listen.
Its untimely ways of seeking to exist through what is said are the mark of my ignorance.

So…
Who speaks?
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Who’s asking?
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Presumably, one who speaks. Who replied?
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Him who asked…
I guess….but he has left, apparently.
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Assuming he was ever here…
J’aimeAimé par 1 personne