there is something in this

normally you exist in my stomach like the stone of fruit.

inside looks different, there is something intangible here. it feels like appropriation, it feels like what i should see, it lacks reality. it reminds me of creation and falsification, of depths and tragedies. it warns me of absence, and that i was outside. it reminds me of outside.

you are there.

there are no spaces inside the house, no neutralities that belong to them as much as they belong to me. i have registered every perspective and garnered every outlook, sealing and defining them within framework that only i admonish.

where are you?

the tower blocks that stretch away beyond and above me upon my path to work, hold unknowns in every window, a million windows; a story for every one. there is nothing in the house like this. i know it all; i assimilate, reproduce, extend and protract the dualities of things, the me and them purposes that coincide with, overlap, reject and exclude each other. the tower blocks to me are a landmark for tired eyes, visual narrowing, neon concrete. to you, and you, and you, and me, it is home.

do you sit, or stand?

this intensity forces a recollection, a throwback to the time before, a stark resolution (though only written upon black in chalk) in which the previous state brings us to the current state which only elucidates on the nothingness of the previous.

there will be reproach for you my darling, just show yourself. where do you hide?

outside is something to believe in, it is the misery of smoke filled street laid out before a heavy dawn; this is the chance to be lost. i may only think of you when inside, but you will always remain outside. i think i shall shut the door, i have left it open. we are getting a little cold.


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