the world
is not specific
in telling you things.
there is a vagueness
about
history,
tomorrows are fogged.
any clarity found
is a false notion of what
you want to
believe, what
you need to believe
to sleep at night,
to pretend all is well
and live
the role of a normal
life.
pain and joy
have become your touchstones,
the rest is a muddled
middle
of slow quick years.
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