I’m picking apart the linear perspective of time. In the moment, writing the “best” words feels crucially urgent. That doesn’t last long. When I read what I wrote a year ago, it summons only fragments of its original attachment. How does this happen?

hours turn into a day , . moment to moment i’ll suffer and ache , or swaddle and

dream ’till i’m further away , . when we’re together refurbish acidic railway , .

human without any name , . combine survival and frivolous banks , to sum up a

blip that for granted i take , . if could label it would the word meaningless stay , .

i pick a target and call it a blur , . people forgotten old neighborhoods walked in be-

-come reincarnated one year after i desert , . no master i’m amateur , .

stitch my recurring demand to be heard , . if i’m a novice i’m driven by progress but

when i get honored the validation only hurts , . because identity burns

– D K T


life ends. why pretend

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