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(Stream of consciousness prose)

These are not peaceful times upon which I can count out the inequalities in my life nor are these joyful times as my manner leaps and falls at the same time over the same events and darkness falls on my shadow in these, not peaceful times where I remain, in camera, a rock upon which leaves cover traces of grains of gneiss, striations of dark and light as these days are now, because I feel I'm losing you, or am I just losing your love as I've become more silent now, speaking less of mutual things and trapping your emotions as a scull traps water in a race against time, mine, yours and ours because time races against no one person or thing inside this room where there is no cold, no rain, no fear, no pain; there is no light either and you are outside of this life growing older, better, smiling through the barren trees whose leaves have tumbled and fallen against my window pane lately while you race about town knowing who you are and where you are going, gathering shadows about you to keep your dreams warm at night under the blankets of thought you purchase from the people you call friends, a word that fills your own heart and thoughts much easier than it fills mine and I need more than your touch to pull me out of this room full of unrest, I need your strength and the strength of your heart, your hand, your camaraderie and that certain something that I have been searching for all of my days that has kept me in the dark for so long, occasionally to let in the light, some fresh air, food of the Gods, spring flowers, knowledge of the outside world where you play, where you stay away from me but here at the same time, and you engulf my emotions, swallow my ego, unchain my skin, feel my breath's heat upon your freedom and you know I don't want you to come to me but pull me to join you in more peaceful times to help balance the inconsistency for every thing must change and I must change and you, you should not change but love and live and give life where I only take it away, push it back into the corners of my shadowed room as I sit between the wall and the fridge on the small tiles with my face in my hands and rivers flow from my soul until I can cry no more into this flooded room as it drains away and the room is bereft of all things and there is but one tear left in the Guff and in this flesh which rolls from this orb onto the void, down, down, down onto the tiles at my aching paws, explode into light and color while the walls fade away and bricks disappear, windows open and night floods in with the air and I find you, arms outstretched, standing there.

WayneRay 12:44, 28 November 2007 (UTC)

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