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Half hearted
Contemplated an empty mortality, and found nothing rich in those fields. A dry riverbed is an apt metaphor, and a reminder of stories that once burned to be free of me. Now a clockwork structure is demanded - bring forth bone and tissue before you even dream of setting breath into motion. What do I deny myself in these fits of order? What is in the night that I hide my will to accomplish?

It shudders and sputters and stops cold. Sometimes there is not ether enough to keep the engine moving. Or perhaps I need to learn better ways to whisper my own secrets to the surface, where they can mix with dreams and produce the wordy deluge I yearn for.

Once upon a time, I was fire. It seems like an eternally turning wheel, for even days that I remember connected with such water now feel ablaze compared to the languid dance I have settled into.


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