Some sicko nailed a bee to this pole

*letter B

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Let her be

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Writing

Human reed

In my hands

Time itself

I could put it down

But I can’t pick it up again

Minutes pass

Is it colder?

 

I can’t tell anymore

 

Clocks are just ticking things

Life makes them ring

Fingers withered

My voice still sings

The spark and the fuel

For the myriad things

It’s all just words

It’s all just words

Still now old aeolian harp

This one’s for you

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Someone took the scissors from the print room at work.

Someone left a passive-aggressive note to ask for their return.

Someone returned the scissors and created a metaphysical dilemma.

Where are the scissors?

Have they ever moved?

Where am I?

What is this place?

How can we be sure what we are seeing is real?

What is my relationship to something I perceive?

Do I create the scissors or do the scissors create me?

Why am I shaking?

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Where are the scissors?

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Bwahahahahahahaha!

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It’s immature, but…

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Darn millennials

With their fiefdoms and pilgrimages.

Uncategorized

1018

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Proof that propeller hats have always been in fashion

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Czech it out

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