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I was originally going to try and go for a piece called Moments Never Last, but then I found out that I'm not ready to write thatUser:Serprex 20:04, February 18, 2011 (UTC)

Sludge. Smile; this is the life

Low wage apartments full of greasy hypocrites. The thought blows away as a car plows by, leaving sludge along half my bottom half

You weren't even thinking when you thought that. You'd be thinking here, today, at this moment. Caught on the wind, your breath blew along

C'est la vie. Ma vie. I've got grates to climb, issues to read, nachos to eat. Basking in the sun; there's nothing too wet to dry

You can't figure how to. Ride flights for roller coasters. Like what you saw? On that night, when the lights were out, but you only fled through curvy streets

These are the moments. Not all those masochistic flip books our eyes spend our lives creating. A breath of fresh air; all the body needs

Your mind is screaming for release from that body of needs. To find a new place where everything you ever wanted still exists. Without purpose, you declare yourself

I'll stick myself on a ship in a bottle, let all those epistemologists be obviously right, be aware that my every disaster is still so small as to fit in a bottle

You'd have to be put in that bottle as a babe. With all the memories a blur. Of epistemology: questioning the past without a consistent future

Looking down from a plane, it's easy to realize we're just tiny points on a plane. But the little things seem big once I land, and I'm only left to sweep for the little weeds growing through the cracks of concrete; find something smaller in our small world

Your looking to fractals to justify your fractured mind. Where mockery gets the last laugh in the smallest throat; I cannot breath a word into your lifeless hope

Enough!

You think you've had enough. To think you've had enough, when all is all the same from since you last saw. Moments of remembering moments; not even those will last

I reiterate: Enough!

Then put yourself down. For all the power you claim, you have an awful way of holding

For every moment I pull upon myself to enjoy, there's some accusation that the seen beauty is only the desire

You're so selfish in your joy. You try to ignore around you. But you have to accept

I've travelled far, trying to appeal to myself, finding those moments where I'm crouched and watching; amazed at what I see, by the simplest things, like the raised ears of a hare

But still you're haunted. Through the nights, you never forgot the simple joy of mutual understanding. How there's another mind behind someone's face is completely astonishing

If only there was only another

Two clear forms are still a mass in Conway's game of life. No matter how melodramatic you are, when the patterns resurface, to be totally ingreed by you. Years ago, in ignorance of what fumbled drunk words would succeed in a chain of events, you spoke

I still speak, to glee, these words, how they sound, the simplest of pleasures are found in the simplest of monosyllables

You're a Goldberg machine being constructed parallel to execution. With axioms that either exist so minimally that they're application is an over abstraction of yourself, or so maximally that they're sacrilege to the concept of axioms, you're bound to contradict even without completeness

My axioms are simple: swell & jolly

You prove the point. When this is over, with another thought, you'll think

My command is simple: shut up

You think you hear. This double meaning of ghostly punctuation, efficiently retelling you itself through you, wracking in the midsts of ambiguous grammars

I hear; I am not ambiguous. I don't listen; ambiguity discards

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