it occurs to me, while lounging upside down on my futon, while there is a cat napping feet from my head, while several warm bodies identifiable easily enough by infrared inhabit my immediate shared space... that maybe i am too content to feel the oncoming advent of death, of forgetfulness and usefulness, and thus feel no drive to create beyond "oh
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i try to reason myself out of that a lot but it's basically true, isnt it?
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