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Channel Crossing

Boat sways. Planes falling out of the sky, few survivors, what is it to be serious?
The lake long and deep, like rising from sleep, or putting your cabinet on hold
while you check the mirror. A parasite is often a lively companion and will do
curious things to your face. I don't know if I want to see the future. Not even then,
dig? Weren't there towers on the banks? Either we got the wrong place or the map
is playing tricks. The future lost in its own considerations, limb longing for stump,
and torso, a phantom being, existence itself turned this way and that in swirls of
dream. What was it, lost, can never again be apprehended? Will we ever know the
simple angles of our being, how our joints are packed into time? Even if this was
the future, I wouldn't want to be here. Burning of flesh and fuel. Good morning.