Thrown into mirrors, seeing plurality—intense mud. Maybe at an incapacity. Defeated. Pushing an iron rock. The face of damages, a rhythm to it. It’s all a contradiction, it makes little sense, at best, it’s paradox. Trying to divest us, trying to outwit us, with such little respect for us. A haunting thought. It leaks out. The greatness by disdain. The chase of the battle. Those off catnip; those off something kinder. Losing again. Like life wasn’t abstruse enough. Indeed. Smarter than me. Wiser, even. The prudence of arduous hours. I become indebted to time, warring against time.
