Like mountains, things hardly ever shift. Instead, we look toward that which is there and cannot fathom that which has ceased to be. We can only move as quickly as the path allows, and the path winds toward some unknown goal.
(And this is what all those "poets" are missing.)
What language? You seek to make things new, but you succeed only in creating
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Hm.
I watched Fight Club last night, interestingly enough.
I *still* miss you.
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