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All in a Night's Work
I want to kick
and scream
and run
and hide.
And.
Well,
it’s scary.
Igniting the kerosene,
drawing the parchment,
carving the lead,
sitting.
Finding nothing,
looking ‘round,
seeing nothing.
Turning back,
running backwards,
finding nothing.
Falling forward,
with backwards progress,
laying in
nothing.
How can you be the author of your existence if you cannot write?
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