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This is the 11th day of
waiting.
seated in the same spot
grindling my hands
to type
and
what gets out is
ddddhhhhdhdjdhdhddhkjsdhjdsh.
Whatever part of the
brain that platitudinized me to write
is dead now.
It made me fall in love,
and now—kaput—it's gone.
Uuuuh what a devoid day !
I am dissolving
into a desolate form.