4131(default numbering)

 

sometimes, at times, maybe even at frequent intervals: I wondered if it was worth it
the delicacy, the articulacy, of “friendships”, “friends” and all “companionships” that
have that platonica and agape in its wake: wakes like storms and funerals, funereal
in my word choice. Pondering this because all my chronologia, my genealogies added
on people are reducible to rubble. I am not saying I want some grand summation that
all things are mutually there, quid pro quo, yet it is the lack of me being valued; holding
even a significant will-of-the-wisp type imagery in you; a surreal palpable of some oddness. This “you” is not singular person yet singular unit of blotched and botched
communications, clashes, petit-catastrophes that make apostrophes either prominent
or irrelevant. There is no boundaries or too many modest looking picket fences that scream all the fiefdom ownerships that one wants to carry. Maybe I am too sensuous or too something that wants some reciprocals that some can’t handle.

I feel alone. Like a lonely ripple: annexed by the vortex of crystalline parameters.▬

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