After slipping through the sheets of convenience,
Is it even worth making my bed?
I'm tearing the clouds that hang above my head.
This room,
Reduced to a blank template for death or brilliance.
As I strip off layers of time to a bare room,
A computer speaks again with low-fidelity warmth;
I remember this before,
When I drew circles on my eyes
So that everything would come together.
Now everything is slowing/breaking down
And the rest is torn apart.
It is the freshness of death
With the bet of a new start somewhere else,
With someone else's hindsight sitting on your shelf.
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