The present is a million beginnings.
and inside the canopy of heaven you have got your hands on a garbage truck full of the past.
you have picked through it
you have given it too much of your mind
and easily found the coarse the sharp.
You have then lacerated yourself and stood in the mirror.
bloody, you have drag it all forward: meticulous and sure to drip on our achromatic present.
what have we done.
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