inside of me, i'm feeling big things as i press my stomach against the cold linoleum floor. i am feeling things, and i am noticing how hard the floor is and how soft i am against it (!!)
and as i try to explain my discomfort in the plainest words i can muster, i turn up a 12 bar blues or i listen to the ababcb pattern on the radio, and i appreciate all i can in the routine of things, and i ogle at simple and my heart feels warm
and i wonder if i wasn't like this then how else would i be?
...and then i finish what i started sleep a little wake soonafter
and start again,
and i realize i don't have to survive long enough at all to feel entitled while jabbing my finger real hard in ernest hemingway's weathered face (not weathered enough)
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